Brain Fog


I missed the signs.


With the caretaking and managing calendars for other households and the holidays and caretaking and illness with the voice rest and hacking my fool head off and the caretaking…


I missed the signs.


Subtle signs at first. Always blamed on stress and running and too much of this activity and not enough of another.


Signs of thyroid brain fog.


I knew I needed lab work. I put it off because, well, life.


And when the fatigue from the cold virus seemed to be disproportionate to the symptoms (since there was no pneumonia or bronchitis), I vaguely starting piecing together the reason for *some* of my issues.


Lack of concentration.


Tired to the bone.


Just give me a cat and my couch and my fuzzy blanket please.


And don’t talk too fast because I can’t follow your train of thought. I can’t even follow my own train of thought. I’m not even sure I have a train. Or tracks.


And the conductor is out on stroke.


Strike. He’s on strike.

I finally got to the lab. The lab got back with me. Unhappy.


Get to the doctor, they said. You’re about to go nuclear.


Well, maybe that’s not quite how they put it, but that’s how my under-hormonal thyroid brain fog perceived it. My doc called in a new strength.


It’ll take weeks to even out from a swing this far off normal. Not that I hover around the normal level often, but this is waaay off. Like I know what I want to say, but I can’t find the correct nouns. Weird.


Like I know I should switch around laundry and do something to the floors, but the thought of it sends waves of weakness through my bones, so I just sit and think about it. Now what’s that thing called? That sucks up the kitty hair and dust? The swee, vee, vacuum! It’s a vacuum.


Worst was driving in the big city and coming upon unfamiliar roundabouts looking for the hospital where my loved one will be poked and prodded once again. In the big scheme of things, she’s got it far worse than me.


I’ve lost nouns. And energy. That’s all. They’ll come back. Some day. Hopefully with a well-rested conceiver.


Conduit.


Conductor. That’s him!


Roundabouts. May as well strap me into Elon Musk’s rocket to the moon as the first test subject. As the pilot. I’d have about as much of a clue.


May as well. Roundabouts. Our good neighbors across the pond can keep them. Us rebel colonists could do without. Especially when the colonists crave sleep and clarity of thought. And certainly us rebels who put off blood work and drive foggy headed from our simple right-angle intersection towns. Urgg.


Who thought those round road mazes were a good idea?


Someone in the middle of a thyrodic brain-fog flare.


And I’m still trying to tag along on the story challenge. Number thirty-something this week. Scary close to not being able to string cohesive thoughts together. (Bless your hearts if you’re still reading this post. Wow…) But short stories are more forgiving than longer works.


So are blog posts. Five hundred words at a time. Little by little. Small sessions. Then a nap.


Well, not a nap right this very second. In the hospital foyer. At least I don’t think so. Maybe…


At any rate, I’ll not attempt any work on the novel. I’d like that one to be written clearly.


Little Miss Muse still wants to play, so the needles and test tubes and dose changes haven’t scared her off. Even bought us some new tennis shoes. Purple. She likes them. But I’m too tired to lace them up and get to work.


Later, Little Miss. Later.


I need a fuzzy blanket and a cat. And my couch.


I hear her stomp off in a purple tizzy. Pouting. Or maybe that stomping is the sound of my heart palpating in my chest, a symptom of the thyroid dance.


I hear her huff and hiss, leaving a trail of lavender attitude behind—or maybe that’s the ringing in my ears, my thyroid gland sending a fleet of Salvation Army soldiers to park their red buckets and brass bells in my ear canals. That’s fun, too.


Fleet? Isn’t that ships? Or planes? No, that’s a squadron.


Hoard? No.


Salvation Army Troops? Brigade?


I’m gonna give up on that nuisance.


Network.


Nuance. Ha. The word is nuance. Maybe.


(Boy, won’t the edits on the short story manuscripts from this era be fun?!??)


Hopefully by the time this posts, a couple weeks from me writing it, I’ll be in the clear. Literally. Little Miss is sure rooting for that day.


So’s the vocabulary checker on my word processor.


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