Saturday, December 20, 2008

Where has the sun gone?

I'm pretty sure I'm becoming a hypochrondriac. Looking back, I think I've been some degree of "ill" ever since I got to England. I know I had a cold or something in London that left me in bed on the day I was supposed to see The Merry Wives of Windsor and dependent on LemSip for a couple of days. Specifically, I've been sinus-y for the past month or so, and I've been really really tired for a few weeks. Now, every ache or twinge makes me feel like maybe I should call 999. The fact that I've been spending far too much time on WebMD's symptom checker probably isn't doing me any good, either. I've also been alone in my room for the past three days, and it hasn't been particularly nice weather outside, so that's most likely adding to my paranoia as well. I'm most worried about the fatigue, since I have three solid weeks of travel ahead of me. Today I woke up at 10:30, made breakfast, spent a couple hours online (including WebMD), worried about the fact that my back has suddenly gone stiff and my muscles are feeling particularly weak, tried to read, and then settled down for a nap around 1 because I couldn't keep my eyes open. This doesn't seem particularly normal. But I've taken a couple different versions of "Immune boosters" and Vitamin C, had some orange squash, and I just made some tuna for that protein thing I'm supposed to be getting. I do get a fair share of protein...maybe. Perhaps I need more iron. I think I'll stop by Boots or something tomorrow for some energy boosters. I know they have a Vit B-12/Iron supplement.

Even if I did have something seriously wrong with me, I almost doubt that the NHS is capable of doing anything about it. The fact that anyone gets medical service in this country astounds me. I love the idea of nationalized healthcare. I really do. But as someone who is used to having private insurance and the service that comes with it, this just isn't enough. A couple of weeks ago, I finally broke down and went to the University Medical Centre with what I thought was a sinus infection. I'd been having symptoms for a while and had been trying to treat them on my own, but nothing was working. I get sinus infections a lot. I know exactly which medication I always take. (Maybe that's the problem. I need a new antibiotic...) Anyway, I went with all of this information and was told simply that my symptoms weren't severe enough for them to perscribe antibiotics, that I should take some decongestants, inhale a lot of steam, have a buddy check on me every couple hours, and come back when I was in excruciating pain. Wow. Thanks a lot, NHS.
I went back sometime last week because my symptoms, while they hadn't gotten a whole lot worse, had not gone away. Politely as I could, I demanded antibiotics because I was going to be traveling and I didn't want to be without meds if I really needed them. The nurse was reluctant, sent me away while she consulted with a doctor, and finally, begrudgingly, handed me a perscription, with a warning that I shouldn't take the medicine unless I absolutely had to. "There's no proof that the antibiotics are going to make it any better," she said.
They don't seem to trust prescription drugs over here. I remember Lauren telling me, when we were still in London, that she went into a Boots to get some Ibuprofen. She was carded, and the person at the counter asked her if she'd ever taken Ibuprofen before and did she know how to use it.
I'm all for "experiencing the culture," and I certainly don't want to develop a dependence on prescription meds if a homeopathic remedy will work just as well, but there just comes a point where I want drugs and I want them now. None of this bullshit to stand in my way. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I'm in a country that speaks English. I'd hate to have medical problems somewhere where I don't speak the language.
So, in the end, I got my antibiotics. But I haven't taken them yet. This has nothing to do with the nurse's cryptic warning. It's just that I no longer think I actually have a sinus infection. My symptoms have developed differently than they normally do. No infectious green drainage. No stuffy nose. Sinus pressue and a bit of post nasal drip is all, but nothing that looks green and icky. Perhaps that's too much detail.

I should probably leave my flat at some point. I haven't since around 7pm on Thursday. And my backache is most likely a result of the many hours I spent sitting in my chair in front of my comptuer yesterday. I'm not normally this much of a hermit. Ok, maybe sometimes. But my fatigue makes me want to stay inside, even though getting up and moving might actually help. The weather isn't terribly nice. Today, for instance, it's been cloudy and drizzling since I woke up. To be honest, I have no idea what the temperature is, since I haven't been outside. I can only assume that it's cold. Can we call this a mild case of seasonal depression? Hopefully the sun and relative warmth of Istanbul will help. Also, falafel. I can only imagine that falafel is the remedy to cure all illness.

Seeing my family will probably also help. Like I said in my last post, I really haven't been homesick until recently, and it's probably only because most everyone else I know has gone home for the holidays. I went through a few sporatic days in the past few months when I wanted to go home, but they always passed. Now I'm alone in my flat. Stephen and Pawel have been busy, so I have no one to talk to expect people online. I was too lazy to go down to campus yesterday, and since now it's the weekend and break, everything is closed. Tomorrow I'll see Stephen and Pawel. On Monday I'll get the train down to London, and then, on Tuesday, my long-awaited flight to Istanbul. At this point I think I'm more excited to see my family than to see Istanbul. Not that Istanbul won't be amazing. But seeing my family after so long will be nice. They're suppose to be on Skype sometime soon, so I'm just waiting to hear from them.

I also found out last night, through an email from my mother, that my grandfather is in the hospital. Again. He's often in the hospital. He's a bit of a hypochrondriac, too, but at 92 he has more reason to be one than I do. This time he has pneumonia and, at his age, he's not expected to make it. I had considered the fact that this summer might be the last time I see my grandfather. He always told me that, at his age, all he could hope for was to wake up the next morning. He's probably the most active 92-year-old I've ever heard of, and he's been doing well with the whole "waking up" routine for a while now, but I always knew that, one day, his luck would run out. I suppose it doesn't matter how good or long a life you've had; you can still be afraid of death.
My grandmother's told my parents not to cancel our travel plans in case he does pass away. I'm conflicted as to how I feel about this. On the one hand, I know my grandfather wouldn't want us to cancel our trip, and my parents and I have put so much work and planning into my Christmas break that, in a practical way, it might be more trouble than it's worth. (I mean this on a purely pragmatic level. I'm not so heartless that I would rather miss my grandfather's funeral than cencel a trip across Europe. I can do that anytime.) Then I think of my Aunt Jane, who passed away four years ago this April. I had the chance to visit her in the hospital a few days before she passed away from cancer, but I didn't. I did go to her funeral-- the only funeral I've ever been to--but I've always felt slightly guilty about missing that last chance to say goodbye. I would feel even worse if I missed yet another chance to say goodbye. And in this case I would probably miss the funeral, too, since Jewish funerals take place as soon as possible after the death, and I would still be traveling.
He's the only grandfather I have. The only one I've ever had. Both my maternal and paternal grandfathers died long before I was born, and my paternal grandmother remarried when I was about three. This is the only grandfather I've ever known. I'm not entirely sure how I'd feel if I learned that he'd passed away. Sad, certainly. But he's been suffering from various ailments for a long time now. Death would be a release from that suffering. Then again, I know he's afraid of death, and he's taken such good care of himself in his old age. Shouldn't that earn him some more time?
Is this too morbid, musing on my grandfather's death before he's even gone? Should I switch to a different topic? More for my own sanity than for yours, I suppose.


A few observations of late:

When I went to make some tuna for my lunch, I noticed that the experation date on the can was 2063. This amused me greatly, to think that anything could last that long. Let's see. In 2063 I will be 75. I plan to still be alive at 75, if it's up to me, which, ultimately, it isn't. But I'd like to buy something with an experation date that far in the future. Motivation to keep on living, so that I keep that can of tuna or whatever right up until the experation date and eat it just before it expires. All right. Getting morbid again. Time for a new topic.

It seems that Chad and I have come to the same realization. Although we claim to both be book nerds (and, God knows, I do love books), neither of us read as much as we'd like to. Even now, I have two books at my bedside which I'd love to be reading, but my eyes get tired whenever I try, and surfing the internet or watching TV is just easier. I feel like a true bibliophile would be reading constantly, not wasting time with idle movie-watching and internet chit-chat. So there it is. My life is a lie.
I've also come to the realization that I'm not a writer. Ever since I was young, I've wanted to be an author. And I was, once. Back in elementary and middle school, I used to write poems and short stories all the time. Looking back on them, they weren't incredibly good, but at least in my early years I actually finished them. As I got older my stories got more complex, and I stopped finishing them. Then I pretty much stopped writing fiction all together. I basically haven't written anything substantial since middle school (with the exception of the stuff I wrote in Creative Writing last semester. I'm not particularly proud of any of it.). Now my abilities have degraded even further. I have tons of ideas, jumping-off points. I even have allegory and deeper messages beneath the surface plot. I just can't seem to develop them. That's all they are: ideas. A couple characters, a basic knowledge of what I'd like to say. No beginning, middle, and end. No character depth. No scenes or setting that's well developed. Just an idea. And I never bring myself to work on it. I just write it down and store it away, telling myself that one day I'll sit down and do something about it. I never do. I must have a dozen Word documents with a half a page description of what I'd like to write about, and that's it. A couple notes in various journals when ideas strike me at random times. But what makes a writer isn't the inspiration. I'm sure everyone has moments of brilliants (or thinks he/she does). What makes a writer is the actual process of writing. An idea is nothing unless it's used for something. A writer is someone who writes, who can think about nothing but writing and would rather spend his/her days developing his/her ideas than do anything else. I'm not that person.
I decided to take on the Creative Writing minor to force myself to write more, because I would like to be a writer. My life goal for the last eight years has been to become a literary editor and write on the side. It's still what I'd like to do. Except that I don't write. I don't have that drive. I think I'll stick with the minor, though. Last semester my stories were mostly written in a hurry, more like normal homework than something I really wanted to do. But, once again, I've got a few ideas and, in England, far more free time to work. Maybe this coming semester will yield something worthwhile.

And since no one's online to talk to and my parents have not gotten on Skype, as they said they would, there's no time like the present.

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