I hate that blogging is the first thing to hit the skids when I’m busy.
Loads of stuff has happened since I was last here. It’s ridiculous. I’ve kept a journal since I was S’s age because I love looking back and remembering thoughts and feelings from long-gone memories, but the older I get, the harder it is to make time for this kind of activity, and that makes me sad.
The dog’s been unwell. Like: properly unwell. About six months ago I thought I’d notice him having strange, trembling episodes that lasted 30-60 seconds. He looked okay when they were happening — lucid, and not particularly distressed by them. We took him to the vet sometime before Christmas, and she said just to keep an eye on it. Any kind of intervention would require a MRI etc. and a general anaesthetic, so if they weren’t bothering him too much (and they really weren’t), play it by ear.
But they got worse. I wouldn’t say the episodes were grand-mals, but they were definitely strengthening in length and ferocity. He’d started curling up his left front leg, gnashing his teeth together and drooling like a mofo. So we took him back mid-Apr, and — courtesy to an all-singing, all-dancing insurance policy — within a month he’d had a full neuro work-up, MRI, spinal-tap and multiple blood tests. By the virtue of ruling out everything else (no brain disease, no tumour etc.), he’s been diagnosed with epilepsy.
From what I can tell, his seizures come in clusters and his last spate — one at 6am the morning he came back from the hospital, and then another just five hours later — scared us (three in 24 hours can be fatal). We were meant to go to Brighton that weekend but our surgeon told us that we couldn’t even postpone starting his meds for a day, let alone three, so we didn’t. He’s now on Phenobarbital twice a day, and — thankfully — wrapping tablets up in a slice of ham does the trick. Heh.
He was/is very unwell on Phenobarbital, though. Side effects (hind leg weakness; disorientation; lack of balance and co-ordination; intense thirst and urination) knocked him for six, and I had a very troubling week where, restricted to the lounge, he acted out in ways he hadn’t done since he was pup. He chewed up cushions, shredded a bag of paperwork … all very un-Wesker like. :( He’s better now, though still not 100%. There are still days when he turns too fast and whacks his head on the door, or jumps up and falls on his ass. Poor thing.
No seizures since, though.
In other news, I’m writing again. Not well, but I’ve shaken off my three-year malaise and dusted off my manuscript. I’m trying to understand more about the craft of writing. Did you know about dialogue tags? I bet you did. I didn’t, though. The push came via “Springboard” training I did in work, bizarrely. I realised I was stupid to have given up because two — yeah, just two — agents passed on me (and had actually said very complimentary things in their letters, too — something I all but glossed over, so hurt was I that they’d turned me down). Besides: I’m writing this book for me. If no-one wants it, I can self-publish. I just need to know that I can finish the bloody thing.
I also picked up a new gig at Destructoid. People and community are awesome; compensation is not. I’m still at IGN and though the stress can sometimes be all-encompassing and things they are a’changin’, I enjoy it very much. I find it amazing that I work regularly for two of the biggest sites in the world and earn so little, though.
I contributed to my first gaming book, though – that was amazing. Stressful as fuck, too, but it’s a bucket list thing that I can’t believe has happened.
I’ve not been playing much; besides what I’ve had to play for work, I’ve been on a break from all things gaming, even Destiny. House of Wolves dragged me back in, though.
S is fine. M is fine. It was our fourteenth wedding anniversary last Wednesday. We celebrated by having a Chinese takeaway and watching The Enfield Haunting. How wondrously apt.
I miss you guys. I shouldn’t let writing professionally stop me writing for me, and I shouldn’t let writing here be the thing I sacrifice first when I’m knackered.