This is the email that I sent out to all my family and friends explaining my situation entitled "Season Finale."
And I want to say that I blog for myself--which is why I'm posting this email. Blogging for me is a stress-reliever and nothing much more than that. It helps me construe my thoughts and it's a convenient place to document the dichotomies of life. I full-well understand that posting into cyberspace allows readers to peak into my life. And if you're enjoying it, I suppose I'm just getting two birds at once. (And I never will understand how that will be possible in the literal sense.)
Hola amigos y familia,
Have you missed receiving my emails?
I've missed writing them, too. And the experiences that have allowed me to write them.
I wanted to take the time to share with my groupies some details for clarification and understanding.
I retired my badge for a bit and came home. Horribly depressing--I know.
It's depressing for me and, I suppose for you as well because your weekly episode of Sister Adams has ended. It's totally okay if you want to cry. There is no shame in crying. Crying is not a weakness. It just means that your heart is able to feel and understand the more sacred feelings of the world, which to me sounds an awful lot like strength. And, for the record, I'm totally crying, too. The full-body kind of cry where you find yourself with mascara suddenly all over your face and hands and legs and shirt and pillow and sheets, and through your snot-filled hysterics you are even a little afraid of yourself . . . So, yeah, it's whatever. Cry all you want.
Anyway, the details. You’re all anxious for them, I know.
Seizures--or episodes--whatever you want to call them. That’s what sent me home. I had one, which ended me up in the ER late on a Sunday evening. (That’s one way to celebrate P-day Eve, but it’s not highly suggested. Too much money and grumpy doctors that make you feel ALL SORTS of uncomfortable.) When it happened, I seized on and off for an hour and a half. And then my muscles were all sore (obvi) but they wouldn't relax. My head was stuck like my earring had been caught on the shoulder of my shirt and my fingers gnarled. So to the ER we went for muscle relaxants and something to dull the pain. If you wanted to know, I’m pretty certain I pulled every muscle in my body including my eyes, but not the arches of my feet or my groin.
After that night, I went to the neurologist.
(Oh, jump back to the ER real quick. After I had a CT-scan there, I asked how it went. The lady said, “Sweetie, you have a beautiful brain.” So, everyone, my brain is now medically classified as “beautiful.”)
The neurologist put me on a few medications. And when I say a few, I mean I had a small pharmacy in my purse. And it sounded like I was the maraca player in some a mariachi band. I hated every part of the medication. The size of the pills, the fact that I had to buy a pill slicer, yes a pill slicer, so that I could take the accurate dose, the side effects . . . Yeah, the side effects were easily the worst part. My legs would “seize up.” It felt like charley horses all through my legs which made it hard to walk in a straight line like a sober person. And my head tickled, like worms were crawling under my scalp. And I sputtered. The words didn't come out even though I could think them. And in my arms it felt like little grenades (we’re talking itty bitty, like a grain of sand size) were exploding ALL OVER the place. And I just plain couldn't feel my face. And I couldn't sleep though I was haggard beyond repercussion.
I was really annoying to the neurologist, calling him all the time, being that needy patient we all make light of. He told me I would get used to the side effects . . . Um, we’re talking worms are crawling under my hair follicles and grenades blowing up my insides. Ain't no sister getting used to that. So he tapered the medicines down. But still the side effects were there, just not as prominent.
Then seizure two happened. Almost a month later.
And that same week seizure three happened.
They called me on a Friday. I was home on Saturday, the Saturday before Mother’s Day. Yeah, Arizona Mesa Mission is clearly the best mission in the world because they actually send their kids home to their mothers for Mother’s Day instead of doing the old Skype thing.
Since I've been home, I’m off all medication and have to have a baby-sitter 24/7. (Hi, my name is Peri Adams. I’m 20 years old and I’m so needy the doctors literally prescribed me a babysitter.)
I've had an MRI, EKG, blood work, and a few neuro appointments.
On Monday, I’m having a prolonged video electroencephalography (real word), which will hopefully shed more information and give us more to work with. The test will take a few days. (BTW, if anyone wants to visit me in the hospital, that’d be dandy. I’ll be looking funky but I won’t care if you don’t. St. Francis. 6th floor. You know my name.)
My prayers are for inspired doctors to help solve this mystery. And solve it quickly because I want to go back out and finish serving. Despite how I may have made it sound sometimes, I loved everything about being a missionary. Including the choinky (made-up word) companions. Maybe not so much the shoes. But I learned and grew and exerted myself in ways I didn't know were possible. And my Savior carried me. I’ll ask that my groupie would pray for inspired doctors and conclusive testing so that I might be on my way teaching and preaching about Jesus.
God is real. And He hears us all the time.
I love you all to Pluto and back.
Mucho amor,
Peri--or you can still call me “Sister Adams”
xo.pa
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