South Park Self

but when it came to know me well, it fell upon its buttered side

You'd think that when a concerted effort of medical professionals1 (physician, other physician, gynaecologist, psychologist) tells you that the recent Medical Upset is a fairly serious thing and takes a while to get over, I'd be able to internalise the fact that it'll take a while to get over. Unfortunately I seem to imitate the action of the gazelle, i.e. it all goes in one ear and out the other while I quiver obliviously. So when, somewhat annoyed to discover that the post-Medical-Event exhaustion seems to be getting worse rather than better, I trek in to my nice doctor and complain, there's a sort of dawning, soul's-awakening quality to the way in which I respond when she takes samples for three separate blood tests, mutters things about viral load and anaemia from possible minor internal bleeding, books me off work until the end of next week, and tells me to start strategising seriously with my boss to, if humanly possible, take time off until the end of the term.

I am a little startled to realise that (a) she means the end of the semester, i.e. until November, not until the end of the 10-day vac next week, and (b) that apparently the recent Medical Upset is a fairly serious thing and takes a while to get over.

Who knew?

I note, for posterity, that upon emerging from my car in the hospital car park for my weekly blood test this morning, I was startled to note a small pile of picked-clean chicken bones lurking ominously by my left foot. I am inclined to think that, rather than any sort of arcane Blair Witch activity, this is yet another testament to the truly horrible food at the hospital, which clearly requires rearguard action by visitors with Kentucky Fried. (I file it in the evidence locker alongside the three completely unconnected people who have, in the last week, cheerfully congratulated me on the weight I've lost).

In other news only related to my state of health by horrific implication, Twining is considering changing the taste of Earl Grey. I am oscillating wildly between responses on a scale from Ritual Suicide to Ninja Assassins by way of Stockpiling in a Nuclear Bunker.

1 That started out as a misshapen sentence structure, but on mature reflection I rather like it as a collective noun.
  • Current Mood: exhausted clearly not over it. Ded.

I hate to tell you this, but Twinings has already changed Earl Gray. It just may not have reached you yet. If not, I strongly recommend you stock up!

Nooooooo! woe! they can't do that! and other expressions of distress.

Of course, there's an above-zero chance that I won't actually notice when the new batch first hits my tastebuds, on account of the talismanic effect of the yellow Twinings box. I ain't afraid to admit it.
The UK has a lovely shop called Whittard's and they do a very nice Earl Grey (actually, they do a few varieties). Worth investigating if you can find a mule to carry it across...

And I do hope you manage to get off oodles of time to get properly better.

If your boss fails to book you off until November immediately, cheerfully and with no strings attached, I volunteer to join the delegation that will doubtless assemble to go and frown sternly at said boss...
Um, thank you ;>. I hope such a delegation will not actually be necessary, they seem all properly concerned and stuff, but if it is, I'd back you to employ Stern Frowns to maximum effect.
Er. I know your boss. She's scary. Let's hope the delegation isn't necessary. I'd feel morally obliged to be part of it, but would have to hide behind pumeza ...
Hmmm, what a pickle...
I mean you have the advantage of being injured while 'at work'...which means they owe you maximum sympathy and possibly some sort of remuneration (do you have workers comp?) without the application of frown-y eyebrows of any sort. But conversely you really don't want them making unilateral decisions in regards to your physical health and denying you future (awesome) overseas junkets.
When faced with a serious Medical Upset (tm), I find it helpful to think of Heyer characters, who would retire to Bath for months to recover from flu, or some other such issue. I think, we in modern times, have become so used to stuff that works and miraculous medicines, that we forget that time and rest are sometimes essential for our bodies.
So what you're saying is, bring back the fainting couch? I can work with that... *staples hand to forehead in experimental fashion*