Okay, so this week was quite hard going. I mean, I figured it would be, what with Sunday ending on an uncharacteristic note of optimism. And that itself despite the set-up for Monday. Behold! Our team is a member short, for my Colleague of Cakes is on her hols (and deservedly so). And the workload getting trucked in from the Rival hospital just keeps on trucking! And I am about to be a year older, traditionally a time when I reflect on what I have achieved over the past year, and what I have not; and this year I am trying like hell to keep my reflections off the subject of, ‘If you’re so great, why are you still in this by-our-lady job, eh? Jeebus, it’s like you’re never gonna get out! Unless you get fired. And repossesed. And end up homeless. Also? Nobody loves you. At least, they wouldn’t if they really knew you.’
I can’t really blame my brain, it is very prone to this when sleep deprived. And in pain. And I have both in spades!
It all started so well, too. After being awake from three on Monday morning (pain), I got up on the dot at five, did some (fairly craptacular) sums and then half six found me down the Allittlement, with no coat or even fleece and in a frock with no leggings, laying waste to all I surveyed with the hose because damn, I planted species partial to a Scottish climate. And the ones in the greenhouse, they like the rainforest, not the Sahara desert.
And, haha, on Sunday, I was giving out about the hose, because the my last lodgers, the Tweedles, (shortly before the husband Tweedle decided to go from ‘oh my god, you can do everything, you are wonderful!’ to muttering insults at me, with practically nothing in between, and I never did figure out why) gifted me the hose, which is very fine and has a stand and adjustable nozzle and everything – and he was promptly horrified I didn’t lock it away safely from my fellow Allotmenters, who only have lesser hoses. But they can use it too! I said, to be greeted with a look of incredulous negativity. It is a gift to all! (See, he was Very Christian and (in his very obvious opinion) therefore Better Than Me, so it was nice to be Nicer Than Thou at him).
I mentioned this at the weekend, so of course, last night, the joke was on me; the hose was In Use, so I could not water my precious things with it, and this morning it was all left lying everywhere and I had to drag it all back and was Most Wroth. Also, covered in mud in my work clothes, haha.
(Also because, while I was sleeping the not-sleep of the unjust, my current lodger wanted something from the freezer and had moved the stuff I had – my bad – left on the freezer, and he had not moved it onto the other freezer, which had nothing on it, but onto the dragons commission I am painstakingly drawing. If there has been a mark left on that, I thought as I approached with horror, I will think nothing of dragging the bastarding cactus-killing bastard from his bed by the ears and lecturing him greatly.
Mercifully for all involved, there wasn’t.)
Instead, there was pain. Much pain, all week. Especially when eating, talking, or trying to sleep. I think, it may be the ‘dry socket’ they speak of, and which I have been gargling salt water and painful mouthwash to avoid. I did my best to work through it, since there was no help for it, and only whined at my poor Colleague of Skull Scarves
a bit. Lots. Every fecking hour, I am an arsehole. But, it was at the stage where it was that or say, ‘Bring the disciplinary, I will take the sicktime anyway (and leave my colleague, who I like, well and truly in the lurch’, and that isn’t fair, so I didn’t) and the painkillers were not working, and when they really weren’t working my hands shook so badly my typing was a mess, so I was falling even more behind, and my brain wasn’t really functioning and I did a poor job and I knew I was doing a poor job and I was freaking out at just how much stuff there was to get done and the phone just would not stop ringing, and eventually I dealt with it by locking the office door and just crying. While I worked, obviously. However; the shame.
Also, this is small potatoes compared to Real Life Problems. GOD.
By Wednesday, I had realised that there was no way I could do a full day’s work and everything I needed to get done and feel like this, so I attempted to be pragmatic, told myself I was not wimping out, cancelled everything, sent out apologies, necked some rather superior painkillers a nice pharmacist had assured me went well together, and got twelve hour’s kip. Mostly. Apart from getting up twice to neck more painkillers (and my lodger deciding to run a bath at half past two in the morning. Shower? woulda been fine, but the bath draws hot water from the boiler, which is right by the head of my bed, which…. ai. I put the pillow over my head by instinct, and it hit the side of my face with the pain in and… ooh! Actual stars! Woo!)
Anyway, he has just handed in his notice, despite not even having seen a hint of any Wroth on my part, which means getting the ads back up, which means checking on them regularly and dealing with calls and keeping the place pristine and making appointments and OH GOD I CAN’T DO IT. FECK.
Somebody needs to slap me. On the left side of my face.
So the day of my birthday rolled around. I had at least had some kip, which was good, because on this particular day I was holding the fort at work Alone. But I was up to date, mostly, and mainly because my Colleague of Skull Scarves had rallied magnificently and done all the rival hospital work herself. I felt… only moderately shit for this week, I looked like I’ve aged several years (who knows, maybe that’s what happens?) and my eyes looked rather scarily dead in the mirror (a revelation that woke no spark of life in the reflected eyes, confirming my suspicions), but hey. Time to shape up, right?
Since today was shaping up to be the most challenging birthday yet, I attempted to rise along with it. If it’s gonna be awful, make sure it’s really awful, right? Or something. Or, someone else will if you don’t, anyway. So I was prepared for a bollocking from my consultants – either, or both. Or one from a member of the public. Or both the above.
Instead, I got a bollocking from the nurses, advising me that if the pain is actually increasing daily (which it is) to get my arse to my dentist post-haste and make sure the damn socket isn’t infected already. It’s the holiday weekend! they warned, there won’t be anything till next Wednesday! Oh corks, I had not considered that, seeing as I am Not only not getting the holiday Monday but holding the fort while everyone else because at Friday’s meeting, the boss suggested both my colleagues could take it at once…
Wow. My boss really did see me coming, huh? I am actually starting to think this is personal.
The dentist, for a miracle, had precisely one appointment left before Wednesday. In forty-five minutes’ time! Which gave me just time enough to make the decision, inform the clinic, email the boss, and belt down to the shuttle with an urgent casenote en route. Goddamn I am hot shit! I thought, racing from the building.
The dentist, after a very long and very whispered conversation with his assistant, told me everything was fine (which he repeated a lot) and he was just going to clean out the socket and administer gauze soaked in clove oil and other things that taste awful. Yup. Totally what several internet sites said was what they do to a dry socket. And afterwards he kept telling me everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about and for godsake to call him immediately if anything went wrong. Um.
But it felt so much better, almost immediately, that I treated myself to a chicken pastie on the way back. Ha, I have been fantasising so badly about food since I lost the ability to chew, even on the other side of my mouth, that it’s not even funny (to me).
Make that a chicken and clove oil pastie. Ewwwww.
On my return, the boss called and gave me into trouble for leaving the department entirely unmanned, which I suppose she has every right to do, because I did. Although when she started in with the, ‘And you should at least have told me!’ – um, I did? Which is how you know about it? Because I decided to Go By The Book in case it all blew up in my face if I didn’t? (You know it would).
Dammit, still too close to the situation, but Houston, it is really starting to seem I am having my time-honoured War With Authority (if we count as a ‘war’, I play Ghandi and Authority plays People With Actual Clout, Shooting At Ghandi). Feh. Please, let it just be paranoia on my part. (Not the sort of paranoid where it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you).
(Are you not really angry about all this? one of the nurses said when I went back down the clinic for the casenotes. Nah, I said, I don’t have the fecking energy for it).
And depression is just anger being apathetic. And perhaps my
ire gloom at having all this happen on a day when I traditionally like to hide from the world and do things I enjoy, except this time around I have failed spectacularly to make any of them happen, is fairly childish. Feck it, it’s one day. But it was mine, dammit! And tomorrow, well, that will belong to someone else, and it won’t feel special.
God, I’m childish.
Given that everything I have touched today has turned rancid, I think I will cancel my somewhat optimistic plans to work on the expenses for the Bossman and the commission for my colleague (although I have, for some twisted reason I don’t even understand, done all my lodger’s dishes) and will instead neck the bottle of wine my Colleague of Skull Scarves gave me and do the internet equivalent of howling at the moon. Which you just read.
Eh. the magical powers of the awful tasting clove oil have worn off, and I have necked practically NONE of this wine. I’ll tighten this up and add some badly-needed humour in post-production, once I’ve got some space on it.