It was four days later. It was 06.37...again. I woke up unassisted, and the whole horrible chapter played out again. This was different to the Bill Murray film, as I had no opportunity to make things better the second time around. Again, I had a spell of alertness. Again, I was rendered unable to speak. Again, I was floored by the crushing sensation which had befallen my head the last time. The pain was worse. I have always had a high pain threshold, but the pain reduced me to tears, and had nowhere to go. It was in my head, and mangled every thought that dared to pass through my brain. I hurriedly took the seemingly ridiculous amount of painkillers that the doctor had suggested, and mercifully, my body succumbed to the pain and I passed out.
I returned to the doctors at the earliest opportunity. As I sat in the calm, open environment of the newly built reception area, I practiced what I was going to say. I knew the doctor wanted me to ride the storm, and maybe I had been reluctant to give her the full magnitude of the situation. I had been eager to avoid being labelled with a medical condition that might affect my career, my driving, insurance policies...use your imagination. I am a person who finds it very difficult to accept weakness...to accept defeat. I don't like being wrong either, but that's another story. I felt weak. I stood defeated. I had nowhere else to go, but full disclosure. I had taken a lot of time to think about the little events that had brought me to this moment...and had battled to keep them at the forefront of my thoughts. Looking back, it seems daft that the things I couldn't stop thinking about were so difficult to string together on the carousel of my conscious mind. When I saw my name pop up on the announcement board, I felt like I was about to walk into the most important exam I'd ever sat...and no matter how much I'd revised, I hadn't got a grip of the subject matter.
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