The last few days were spent, oh so spa-like, in a hospital after a migraine that turned really nasty and whammed me with a couple of seizures. Eric's definitive "we're going to the hospital" moment was that after one of them, I didn't know--for about five seconds--who I was. Literally. And while there are a few times in your life where you wish you could forget your own identity (oh god does a particular mid-80's party come to mind), when the CPU in your head actually does completely reboot, it is quite disturbing.
We skidooed over to the ER and I was admitted, assigned a neurologist, and told I needed medicines that would turn my breast milk into a dangerous toxic goo. So of course Eric and I agreed to the plan of his force-feeding Olivia formula over the next couple of days, which I was assured would be the minimum of my relaxing stay.
I have to admit that it was intriguing, in a "House" kind of way, watching the doctors put the pieces of the puzzle together, if not slightly unnerving that the puzzle was me. My neurologist (that's a great cocktail party dropper I haven't yet used) pinned it down to the fact that I have a "low threshold for seizures". This is good news, as it rules out the possibility of merely watching television and starting to flop and bite my tongue off. But, if I have what you might call The Perfect Storm--all things coming together exactly right--like:
- nine months of serious sleep deprivation
- an intense migraine
- an hour and a half drive home during that migraine
- extreme nausea and throwing up
- being around Simon, the dog
Additionally I am to keep a food diary and find which foods trigger my migraines. This will be particularly fun for me, as I already severely monitor my diet due to diverticulitis. The cross-referencing and charting may possibly lead me to discover The Perfect Food Storm: that combination (say caviar and peanut butter/poppyseed sandwiches) that could in fact, actually kill me.
Olivia was a champion: she now drinks twenty-eight ounces of formula a day, and sleeps through the night. All of the weaning suggestions required my hearing/ignoring/denying her crying, and my "toughing it out". Though I respect and appreciate all of your methods, I chose going on a vacation. Well, one that is paid for via a deductible, anyway.