Seizure salad with grilled chicken please…

Ok, bad joke. But I make it at my own expense so it’s acceptable.

For those who know me best the following information is nothing new, and as much as I pride myself on not being the “today I woke up I had breakfast I went to work I came home…” type of blogger, I now find myself limited in both experiences and creativity over the last several days thanks to this topic of discussion which has given me no alternative but to do so.

I, my mother and my brother were all born with temporal lobe epilepsy. The peculiar thing about this is that for all three of us, our epilepsy manifests itself in very different ways and is also treated in very different ways. My mother’s seizures are relatively simple, she merely passes out. My brother, however is afflicted by the stereotypical horror-story type seizures which involve quite a bit of contorting and convulsing which has resulted in physical injury on more than one occasion.

My seizures are the least physical of the three…mine are what’s defined as “partial complex” seizures. Basically all this means is I don’t flop like a fish or pass out.
And, oddly enough, out of the three of us, mine is the most difficult to control. At no point so far in my life has my epilepsy been under 100% control. My mom hasn’t had a seizure since the 80’s. My brother’s docs are still figuring out his meds but he hasn’t had a full-on seizure in quite a long time. I had one this morning. And the day before yesterday. And two more earlier in the week. Combine that with the dozen or so auras I experience daily…yeah, this week has sucked.

My seizures may not cause me to bang my head on the coffee table, but the problem is that they are completely cerebral. If you saw me having one you’d just notice that I’d stopped talking and was staring off into space, unresponsive, for several minutes, eyes closed, and now I’ve been told my hands have been twitching which I think is new but freaks my shit out. Externally this seems like it’s not so bad. Unfortunately on the inside it’s not that pleasant.

Mine pretty much start off with this intense feeling of dread, like the kind you feel in the pit of your stomach when you’re boarding a roller coaster and you hate roller coasters. Then my brain engages in the act of creating false memories, which translates into the most intense and out of control deja-vu imaginable. No matter what I do, no matter how I try and change the events that my brain is going to tell me I’ve lived through before, nothing stops it…I mean, EVERY detail, every tiny thing, has happened before. I usually yell at people if they try to talk to me when it’s setting in; when it hits, talking really can’t happen anymore…talking just isn’t an option so much at that point. This event results in a feeling of complete loss of control over anything and then the panic inevitably kicks in…heart rate jumps, I break out into a sweat, I forget how to breathe. My muscles warm, I usually have to clench something in my hands, my stomach churns, and my head throbs. I don’t talk or try and move because that contributes to the deja-vu. Fortunately those closest to me know to just leave me alone when it happens, because I don’t want anyone looking at me, talking to me, touching me until it’s over. Eventually it passes, my muscles relax, my jaw unclenches, though the pounding in my head doesn’t go away until hours afterwards. I become absolutely exhausted, and can fall asleep almost instantly. What sucks after that is, whatever I do, who I talk to, where I go…if it happens within the first half hour, sometimes even as long as an hour, after the actual seizure, I won’t remember it. It’s just completely gone. I could have burned someone’s house down and wouldn’t remember it, even though it could have been just 20 minutes prior. Then the grogginess hits, the surreal, ungrounded feeling sets in and lingers throughout the day…things just feel “off”…hard to describe. It sucks, that’s it.

Ordinarily this happens between 6-8 times per month, concentrated within a few days. I’ve had them at work without anyone really noticing, and have been able to function just fine despite this…since the actual “non functioning” bit is only 2-4 minutes, which is far shorter than my coworkers’ smoke breaks. What’s going on now is that my body is in the throes of purging the Depo-Provera injections I’ve been receiving for the last couple of years and, how lucky for women, seizures are also hormonally triggered. So this is going to continue for a bit until my hormones normalize.

The auras are what piss me off. There’s about 2 seconds of the deja-vu feeling but it’s just enough to throw me off. I start to wonder what’s really happening and what’s a seizure. The lack of control over my brain pisses me off. Makes me unsteady, throws me off, drains my focus. Feel like hiding under my bed with a pillow on my head and wait for my body, my brain and my hormones to get their shit together.

The most amusing thing is that because of where my seizures are located, it severely inhibits my short-term memory. I will tell you the same story, literally, three or four times until you get fed up at nodding and smiling and just confess that you’ve heard it numerous times before. Appointments, people, names, faces, places, directions…unless I’ve been there/met someone/written it down, it’s completely gone. One of the reasons I’ve been keeping a journal since I was 12. What’s really interesting is that I’ll go back and re-read things I’ve written and it’s so completely unfamiliar, even monumental things, it’s as if I’m reading someone else’s story.

Oddly enough I have an insane long-term memory; from every address I’ve lived at (though I had to live there several years for this to be true) to foreign languages to 200 digits of pi; once it’s in there, its in there. Kind of a consolation prize I suppose.

 

>inter-office relations

>One of the perks of sharing a cubicle wall with me:

Or disadvantages, depending on your point of view.

Phil welcomes me every morning with a resounding guttural “jinniphurrlurnkenoooo!!!” as I arrive at my desk. And when I get an email. Or when he sends me an email. Or when it’s raining. Sometimes when I sneeze or shift in my chair. David has tried to duplicate this audible Phil-trademark with little success. Mostly because he foregoes the “jinniphurr” portion and goes straight for the “lurnkenoooo!!!” bit in a slightly higher pitch than Phil so it sounds completely not-like Phil. But we’ll still give him a trophy.
Phil also loves to sing about pirates stealing his booty.

David occupies the cubicle next to mine. David drinks coffee and loves spam. And sounds remarkably like Mr. Hanky when he receives aforementioned spam.
“Oh, what’s this? An email…ooh! What am I gonna do? Here ya go…”
And then forwards me the email. That I have already received myself as it is spam. Which I send back. Which causes the Mr. Hanky speech and I receive it yet again.
And then in the background one can hear “jinniphurrlurnkenoooo!!!” from the cubicle across the way since I just received an email.
David, because he has the cubicle next to mine, has the misfortune of sharing a wall with me. Which is where I perched my modified mannekin as seen above. The mannekin has yet to follow through with his threat but I told David to watch his six regardless.

I had to find new co-workers to torture since I don’t work with DaBoon anymore.

Now I just torture her via Gmail, although it’s not quite as effective.

I think DaBoon should get a trophy. Maybe even a pizza trophy

voulez-voulez-vous did ya get the memo?

>i am the master of my domain.

>Now I just need to figure out what the hell to do with it.

I need a copy of Dreamweaver. For my Mac. I know and love Dreamweaver. Please dear god someone help me.

Right now I have my site (www.jenniferlankenau.com…because I’m SUCH a freaking egomaniac…) redirected to…well, here. I am desperate for content.

I had content…lots and lots of beautiful content on my previous site, but it was unexpectedly removed without anyone telling me they were deleting it. Nothing sinister, I assure you. No one hacked me or anything. Just an inconvenient failure to communicate.

Anyway.

So now I have to take hi-res photos of all my work to throw into the bloody thing. Then I will need to upload and edit and design and arrange and this will no doubt consume many long hours of my day in which I’m sure my social life and perhaps my hygiene will suffer.

My html skills suck ass thanks to lack of use for over a year.

I’m sure there will be much display-targeted profanity involved.

voulez-voulez-vous lol, omg, wtf, g2g

> The first rule of Fight Club is…
You don’t talk about Fight Club.

The second rule of Fight Club is…
you don’t talk about Fight Club.

I dunno, seemed to fit…?
Maybe I’m stretching a bit.

Voulez-voulez-vous the third rule is…

>Ok. I have to confess to a certain irritation to the branch of office politics that is the “Office Birthday”.
On my way out the door yesterday I was accosted by one of “The Ladies” (I’ll elaborate on this sub-species of the office environment in a moment) asking me if I had the cash to contribute to the purchase of a birthday cake.
“No, sorry…” I tell her.
“It’s only a couple of dollars…” she insisted.
“I really don’t have it…”
“Well, the party’s not until tomorrow; maybe tomorrow?”
Standing firm by my decision, I shrugged her off and walked out the door.
What I did not want to tell her (mostly because I’ve only been here a month and I don’t want to damage any inter-office relationships) is that the whole idea of “forced financial contributions” to “office birthdays” pisses me off.
First of all, why the hell is the office a place to celebrate people’s birthdays? I mean, does the taking an hour from your workday to sing a half-hearted “Happy Birthday to You” when all you really wanted was a piece of the cake you financially contributed (and you’d damned well better get a corner piece) to constitute your lunch hour? How does that work, exactly? If we choose not to participate, do we get essentially a 2-hour lunch break? Or is it penance for being a bunch of cold-hearted bastards who agree that this whole phenomenon is a soul-sucking event?

And, “The Ladies”. You know who they are. They’re the ones who live for this kind of shit. They’re the ones who bake cupcakes for the entire office to celebrate someone buying new socks. They get a high from spending hours hunched over their dining room tables with their cadre of scrapbooking supplies constructing handmade cards while they pet one of their eight cats. Clutching their hand-made creations they float from cubicle to cubicle like honeybees with a pen and this heavily (bordering on overly) decorated card instructing you to relay your sentiments to “X” person’s birthday. So you scribble a less than enthusiastic “happy birthday” and go back to your spreadsheets.
But these women go all out. Especially when the birthday is for someone in upper management. They decorate the break room like it’s someone’s wedding shower and set up paper plates and plastic utensils like it’s a grand catered event. They send cute little birthday spam emails with large, pink letters in Comic Sans font complete with animated gif’s and exclamation points. I see the Red Hat Society in their future.
Okay, maybe I seem bitter. But it’s principle, people. How sincere can forced birthday sentiments be for chrissakes. Additionally, I should not be confronted with judgmental looks from “The Ladies” whenever I see them in the restroom. I’m sorry if doing the “birthday thing” provides them with a great delightful purpose, but don’t force your priorities on me. It’s not like I’m expecting a piece of aforementioned cake of which I chose to decline sponsorship. I’d just rather stay in my cube in all my curmudgeonly glory instead of standing around in the miniscule breakroom noshing on over-sugured store-bought cake and engaging in impromptu bullshit conversation in a room of people of whom ¾ I don’t know. I’d rather hang out at my desk and listen to my co-worker sing the Mango song at random intervals.

Voulez-voulez-vous “aargh here’s a pirate…he’s after my booty!”

…by the way…the cake was awesome!!

>This is Kiddo. Kiddo is unhappy. Kiddo is unhappy because I was unhappy that Kiddo was eating the baseboards and chewing on the drywall in the bathroom. Which also made Eric unhappy because, well, it’s his house.
I had reservations about the color of his exercise ball…looking at the world through fluorescent magenta rather than rose-colored plastic might make him erratic and perhaps cause him to lapse into a coma.
I took him downstairs to show Zoe this critter in his basketball-sized contraption (ensuring that she was in no way within kicking range…she’s 2…). Zoe and parents were in their room, as well as a 21-year old curmudgeonly never-gonna-die cat who, upon seeing this rat-like creature in a fiery red orb, began this low howling-growling business I have heard neither before nor since. Kiddo just chewed on the ball.
Took him back upstairs, making certain that I closed the door behind me. (thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk…); set him on the floor. Went to work on steampunk projects.
And he…just kinda…sat there.
Chewed on the sides a bit.
Turned around.
Took a shit.
And just kinda—sat there.
I realized he might need some tutelage.
As I was unable to personally demonstrate the purpose of his globe-like prison, my only choice was to roll him a bit to get him started. He didn’t quite get it. After several attempts which resulted in him remaining perfectly still while his rump rolled up the backside, I realized this was just one of those things he was going to have to work out on his own. After I arrived at this conclusion, I went back to work.
And…he just…sat there.
And chewed.
After a time I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. He had figured out how to loll about. He seemed excited. And befuddled. Or, considering his condition, be-bubbled.
He also didn’t appreciate the photo shoot he had suddenly become a victim of. Bright flashes of light coming through magenta skylights…that’s f*cked up.
Thud.
The door! He had rolled into the door. He was getting it, by god. Of course, due to the extended amount of time he was spending in it (I spent $23 on the goddamned thing…he was going to learn to use it) he had made several deposits that made a pleasant rattling sound as he lolled about.
He eventually made his way to the bathroom which mercifully had hard floors which helped facilitate his movement. Recognizing where he was, he made his way to his favorite baseboard-chewing spot and despite the obvious barrier to his goal he began chewing on aforementioned barrier, I suppose to eventually work his way through to his chinchilla rendition of crack.
He is as of yet unsuccessful.
As horrid as it sounds, I did imagine what it would look like if he did make his way through the doors and down the (fortunately) carpeted stairs. It’d look like a Looney Tunes skit in my mind. Of course, the floors at the bottom of said stairs are hardwood so the nightmare wouldn’t end there. If he rolled just right he’d find himself careening down yet another flight of stairs, these being not-so-carpeted and inertia would be high.

Voulez-voulez vous thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk…

>Nostalgia Thursday

>So, Nostalgia Thursday.
It all started yesterday, so I suppose it should be Nostalgia Wednesday…but it very well can’t be Wednesday today, can it? That would mean tomorrow would no longer be Friday and I see that pissing a lot of people off. Don’t be daft.
So, yesterday. My coworker felt it necessary to inform me thay the New Kids on the Block (I shit you not) are on a “reunion tour”. Reunion tour? Are you mad? They made me nauseous the first time around. This should not be allowed to happen. They were like the gateway drug for atrocities such as Backstreet Boys and N’Sync (did I spell that right? I’m sure one of you knows…you sick bastard).
I was not about the teenybopper Tiffany/Debbie Gibson/Kylie Minogue madness. (Though you have to admit, Kylie did morph into an uber-hottie, even after surviving breast cancer…she kicks ass.) I was the one of the Original New Wavers. Fuck the Emo’s man…they’re a bunch of poser wannabe’s. I bet they’re all closet Hannah Montana junkies anyway. They probably have razor blade parties jammin’ to the Spice Girls.
(aren’t I just a retro elitist bitch, eh?)
My peers and I were all about Depeche Mode, New Order, Pet Shop Boys (though they were kinda boppy), Camouflage, The Cure, the Smiths, Morrissey…and wearing as much black as possible, shunning the Jelly Shoes and L.A. Gear’s.

So needless to say I will not be waiting in line to see Dirk Diggler (I’m a star I’m a star I’m a great big shining star…) belting out “Step by Step” with his late 80’s denizen cohorts. Shudder.

However…
I did see a poster on the way to work this morning announcing that Duran Duran, too, is on tour. Swoon… I have to admit an early-pubescent crush on the entire band. I could happily fall into a naked pile of Duran Duran. Even now…they’re like, what…50 years old or something? Doesn’t matter. Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode is about that age and I could still chew on his bottom lip for hours…

Voulez-voulez-vous Sweet Dreams are Made of This…