I've heard stress impacts the immune system. Something about how too much of it can have a negative affect on the immune system, or something like that. I even decided to Ask Jeeves about it, since I figured it might shed a little light on my current situation. I found this:

''¦modern living often involves situations in which we are chronically stressed, and this means that our repair mechanisms and immune response are continually impaired.'

This from Healthy.co.uk. So healthy.co.uk thinks that stress is, basically, a bad thing. A very bad thing. So funnily enough, why am I constantly engaging it?

My nice therapist has been saying that I am chronically stressed and chronically exhausted, and he says that with lifting the lid off of Pandora's Box (aka 'Gee Helen, what a load of incredible fucking issues you are loaded with') the exhaustion and stress will come to the fore, that my incredible Broom Of Denial can no longer sweep things under the carpet. The truth is, there are a number of stresses running in and out of my life, some of which I don't blog about.

And the health, she has been suffering.

Two weeks ago I had vomiting. Like, Exorcist-style vomiting. I was standing in the kitchen making coffee when suddenly I knew. I knew, like you know a good melon, like you know when you are actually going to be audited, like you know when you're halfway down the motorway and you realize that you left the iron on during one of the few occasions that you actually could be bothered to drag the fucker out of the ironing cupboard. I ran to the bathroom, lifted the lid, and couldn't even get the time to kneel down before projectile water vomiting (all I'd had so far that morning was a glass of water) spewed forth. Gorby ran in and whimpered at my feet due to the demonic sounds I was ushering forth. Angus dragged him out of the bathroom to let me enjoy the fulfilling sensation of vomiting in peace, however this has set a pattern into place-I can't go to the toilet without Gorby coming with me and curling up protectively at my feet.

Makes it hard to poop when a dog's on your feet, but I appreciate his caring company.

I have had migraines periodically throughout the past few weeks. I am popping Migraleve like they're M&Ms, and the truth is they're about as effective as a hard-coated chocolate goodness candy as well. When I get a migraine any amount of noise is deafening, all lights are brighter than the sun, and I like nothing more than to have someone take my head and squish it between their hands as hard as they can. While Angus is willing to be my human vise it freaks him out a bit, even though I tell him that no matter how much I love his strong Popeye forearms there is no chance in hell that he will actually be able to force my head to pop, thereby squeezing my brain from out my ears. (For some reason, that last sentence? Yeah, all I can think of is Poe's The Raven- Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! And it's said all in a Homer Simpson voice.)

A few weeks ago a cold rolled in, where it has since put in stakes, built a home and the new dishwasher it ordered comes next Tuesday. The cold means I wake up in the morning and I go to bed with a horrid dry cough, a cough that sounds like something you would expect Mr. Ed to lung up just after asking for Wilbur, a bushel of carrots, anda more dignified hat. It includes alternations between a nose that won't stop running and congestion, which consists of me making inhalation sounds whereby I try to snort back snot at what I suspect are speeds that exceed 100 mph. Accompanying the cold are the friendly companions swollen glands, throat ache and sputum galore.

I have also been suffering a gynecological issue whereby the discharge that a woman normally suffers just after the monthly ovulation (for the men folk, that's a clear white stuff that's not unlike a snail trail you see on your winter cabbage. For the women you know what I'm talking about, and if you've never had said discharge then you're one lucky cow.) has been appearing. Appearing in spades. As in I have enough lube to take care of an entire team of proctologists. As in I could sit down naked, but only on carpet as on hardwood floors it'd be more like a Slip '˜N Slide.

The final straw was this morning. Angus woke up and took the dog out for his long morning walk while I lolled about in bed. As I stretched I realized it was nearly impossible to open my eyes, particularly my left eye. Not because I was too tired, or hungover, or blinded by a migraine, but because I literally couldn't open my eyes. I rubbed them and felt them burn and water, so I stumbled into the bathroom where I found that they were wildly inflamed with allergies, something I hadn't suffered since I left the States (the Swedish winters were hard enough to kill any sign of any remote allergen so those were good days.) They were bright red and swollen and watery and'¦above all, they were bugged.

I had bug eyes. I could deal with my voice being funny and trying to explain that 'I'b find, whad?' is cold for 'I'm fine, what's your problem?' I could accept the cough and the constant companion of lozenges. I could even nearly deal with the snail trail in my shorts. But the bug eyes? I can't fucking take the bug eyes.

They were huge and red and swollen and sticking out. If I turned sideways I would look like Roger Rabbit. They were bugged to the extent that I look like that chick from Witches of Eastwick, the one who spews vast quantities of cherrie pits down the aisle of the church. I look as bug eyed as the woman in Alien who screams as she sits next to the guy whose chest explodes (come to think of it she is, actually, the same woman in Witches of Eastwick. She really has some fucked up parts. Maybe she needs to get a better agent.) I have allergies, or at least I'd better have-the only other option is that I am getting Pink Eye (conjunctivities) which I've had periodically in my life, and nothing puts me in more of a killing mood than Pink Eye (metaphorically speaking, of course. I'm a pacificist, so when I say "killing mood" I mean "sit around and wring my hands a lot while moaning the fact that there are no Gilmour Girls reruns to watch on TV here while recovering in seclusion").

So yeah. Medications being taken, eyes being maintained with hot compresses, and the beaver being attended to by multiple wiping sessions. The Merck Manual people will be dropping in any day now. Stress impacting immune system? I got your backup data on that, in fact-I'm a one woman research facility.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:00 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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