Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or not a regular reader of my daily rants and rumblings, I’ve been out in the bush of brain-weirdness for the last couple of days. With the fantastical myth of “Food Poisoning” floating through the air, I’ve been forced to quash these theories with a firm: No, it was not food poisoning. And the truth of the matter is that the truth is far more puzzling. It started on the morning I pounced into Ikea, last Thursday (That’s the 7th of October, for all us not-so-mathematically-inclined) – once I got out of the car, I knew something was up with my vision, but ignored it, thinking it was nothing but just the bright sun-light pouring back into my face. My, was I wrong.
Heading into Ikea, I began making a list of wonderful things I was going to pick up. Enthusiastically, I grabbed a complimentary copy of the Ikea magazine to peruse while I wandered the aisles, you know, those ones that you have to return when you leave. I was going to make a day out it, after all. Without a second thought, I trooped upstairs to the big cafeteria, pulled out some change to get myself a bank-breaking Swedish meatball breakfast ($4.95 and a World Of Pain) and yummed it down with vigor. It was during this enthusiastic yumming that things started to go horrifically wrong. My vision blurred erratically and I couldn’t read the type of the Esquire magazine I had brought to read, I began to sweat, and suddenly an elastic band of pain tightened around my skull.
Thinking it was but a headache, I decided I had better start off on my trip around Ikea, skipping the showrooms to head straight to the Marketplace – my vision began to really suffer, my sweat was sticking to me like ice-cold chicken cutlets and I almost skidded through the walkways, managing to pick up two photo frames along the way. I still don’t know how I managed to do that. Nor do I remember how I managed to rip off a mangled smile at the tubby security lady who peered into my massive Cher tote in amusement (of it’s sheer size).
Making it to the car, I was a mess, praying that I could manage to get my little Snowy home in one piece without killing anyone. THANK GOD THAT I DID. But not without taking some damage. I managed to vomit all over my hands into my lap at a red light. Very classy. I had to drive home in a pool of my own mess. Gross and disturbing. I don’t recommend it.
At home, I cleaned myself up – showered and called my mum in madly panicked tones, I was dizzy, couldn’t see anything, ill to my bones and my parents had gone to Warick (a township about 2 and a 1/2 hours away) and then, without much fuss, I passed out.
I came to, on the sofa surrounded by drifting faces. People were jabbing me, asking me bizzare questions that made no sense. I blacked out again. Next time I surfaced, I was on a gurney in a hospital corridor and then the third time I found myself in an observation cubicle. And they were still asking strange questions – none of which I was lucid enough to answer coherently. I found out later that on arrival, the ambos had rimmed me with morphine, and in the hospital, I had been dosed with two other head ache relievers (also used as strong anti-psychotics) – they then failed to give me a full analysis, putting it down to food-poisoning, as I was unable to answer any of their ridiculous questions due to being drugged so close to stupid, I could of been worn as a swimming cap. Found by my house mate, and dragged from my room to the living room by my house mate’s aunt (yeah, I know, weird, right), my mother’s friend had also rushed over when my mum had called, and so I had a full-fledged crowd of gawking visitors. While at the hospital, my boyfriend had left work to see me, later my parents, and in the major mind fug, I managed to get home that night, tripping over myself and falling into a deep sleep.
The next few days were a blur of sleep and pain. I had been jabbed a total of five times. I could only recall them being really concerned that I had one of several things: a heart attack, meningitis, a pregnancy. I can remember laughing to myself in my head, then bouncing back to the deep black of unconsciousness. On day four after my incident, I racked up enough energy to get myself to church and thence, to a beautiful wedding. I’m so glad I built up enough energy to go – because it was well worth it. Such a fantastic and beautiful ceremony – and I sucked it up and managed to make it through the ceremony without a) falling over and b) vomiting on anyone. A win win situation, if you ask me.
Just today, I went to get a CT performed, and the results came back clear – my brain wasn’t bleeding (even though it felt like it) and I was brain-bump-less, which made me feel so relieved, I almost cried then and there in the icy hospital car park. I still have a full set of bloods to be collected, for both thyroid and diabetes-related diseases. I can only assume that I managed to achieve a nasty bump on the back of my head and am still dopey from my massive druggage, which is the reason why I still have a heavy residual over-hung feeling and a slightly flat-feeling skull – but my mother, bless her soul, believes it was from Ikea.
Yes, my dear mother believes I am now allergic to Ikea.