I has an insomnia. Wanna share?
Bleh. I hereby declare "Slipping in and out of consciousness in between dashes to the toilet" to be the worst way to spend a long weekend. Wish I knew what caused it - the baby brought home a gastro virus Thursday night that only kept him and then his dad sick for less than 24 hours each, but I'm still going after three damn days. I didn't eat anything nobody else did on Friday night either. At least, I don't think I did. Maybe the cats dropped some dubious salmon into my mouth as I slept on the couch. Devious little beasties.
Anyway, unexciting week aside, I should probably mention here (for my own memory if nothing else) my visit to the orthopaedic surgeon last Friday. Now, this is not the God Wannabe who actually went in and did nothing in November. This was actually my original God Wannabe from 07 who I loved - he was the first specialist I'd seen who actually had a working knowledge of Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, he didn't think my meniscus warranted surgery, and he found me the Best Physio In The World. Now, you may remember that the GW who went in and did nothing in November is full of plans to go back in and this time seriously muck about with the underlying structures in the hope of stabilising my knee and stopping the lateral dislocations of my tibia/fibula. The second (first?) GW whom I saw last week doesn't think that should happen. Doesn't think I should get any further surgery. He's sending me to a third GW for yet another opinion and will set me up with a conference of GWs to plead my case (at the Mater, at 0700 hrs *eyetwitch*). He didn't really give (at least to me) good reasons, though. Yes, anaesthetic is dangerous and we now know I'm pretty freaking sensitive* and yes, there's no guarantee on how long a graft will last.
But.
Any extra time the shortening/graft will give me IS EXTRA TIME, dammit. Is extra time to spend in the field that I love, in the only vocation I've known in my adult life. It's time to build up a reputation and a buffer so that if/when the graft gives out, people will happily accommodate me rather than hunt around for an able-bod who can also do the job. It's also, as twitchfetish pointed out tonight, a quality of life issue. As things are now, I can't reliably walk to the shops and do a supermarket trawl. I can't reliably stand up on public transport. Hell, I can't reliably get up out of a chair or roll over in bed. I flat out can't access 99% of lighting and sound booths in theatres, and stage managing is increasingly difficult if I need to do set changes. Forget acting. Auditions for Hairspray happen in Brisbane on Wednesday. While I may possibly have lost too much weight in the last two years to play Tracey (and please, don't feel you have to correct me on that), I definitely wouldn't survive the choreography. And I hate that. I'm not even all that enamoured of getting halfway decent seats (mezzanine level at Boondall, we'll see tomorrow night at the Convention Centre) at concerts thanks to the chair. I'm not saying that the first thing I'd do if I got the surgery is run out and join in a mosh pit, but being able to stand up and see the Royal Crown Revue the next time they play the Tivoli might be nice.
I suppose, since this surgeon works out of the Mater, I could also always point out that even if the graft only gives me another ten, hell another five years on my feet, that's my childbearing years out of the way.
I miss my husband.
Sigh.
*This will probably end up being what swings my vote in the matter. If I request a report from the anaesthetist who knocked me out last year and it indicates that any further surgery not likely to save my life in the proceeding 24 hours is a bad idea, I'll accept that. If not ...
Anyway, unexciting week aside, I should probably mention here (for my own memory if nothing else) my visit to the orthopaedic surgeon last Friday. Now, this is not the God Wannabe who actually went in and did nothing in November. This was actually my original God Wannabe from 07 who I loved - he was the first specialist I'd seen who actually had a working knowledge of Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, he didn't think my meniscus warranted surgery, and he found me the Best Physio In The World. Now, you may remember that the GW who went in and did nothing in November is full of plans to go back in and this time seriously muck about with the underlying structures in the hope of stabilising my knee and stopping the lateral dislocations of my tibia/fibula. The second (first?) GW whom I saw last week doesn't think that should happen. Doesn't think I should get any further surgery. He's sending me to a third GW for yet another opinion and will set me up with a conference of GWs to plead my case (at the Mater, at 0700 hrs *eyetwitch*). He didn't really give (at least to me) good reasons, though. Yes, anaesthetic is dangerous and we now know I'm pretty freaking sensitive* and yes, there's no guarantee on how long a graft will last.
But.
Any extra time the shortening/graft will give me IS EXTRA TIME, dammit. Is extra time to spend in the field that I love, in the only vocation I've known in my adult life. It's time to build up a reputation and a buffer so that if/when the graft gives out, people will happily accommodate me rather than hunt around for an able-bod who can also do the job. It's also, as twitchfetish pointed out tonight, a quality of life issue. As things are now, I can't reliably walk to the shops and do a supermarket trawl. I can't reliably stand up on public transport. Hell, I can't reliably get up out of a chair or roll over in bed. I flat out can't access 99% of lighting and sound booths in theatres, and stage managing is increasingly difficult if I need to do set changes. Forget acting. Auditions for Hairspray happen in Brisbane on Wednesday. While I may possibly have lost too much weight in the last two years to play Tracey (and please, don't feel you have to correct me on that), I definitely wouldn't survive the choreography. And I hate that. I'm not even all that enamoured of getting halfway decent seats (mezzanine level at Boondall, we'll see tomorrow night at the Convention Centre) at concerts thanks to the chair. I'm not saying that the first thing I'd do if I got the surgery is run out and join in a mosh pit, but being able to stand up and see the Royal Crown Revue the next time they play the Tivoli might be nice.
I suppose, since this surgeon works out of the Mater, I could also always point out that even if the graft only gives me another ten, hell another five years on my feet, that's my childbearing years out of the way.
I miss my husband.
Sigh.
*This will probably end up being what swings my vote in the matter. If I request a report from the anaesthetist who knocked me out last year and it indicates that any further surgery not likely to save my life in the proceeding 24 hours is a bad idea, I'll accept that. If not ...