Up The Farway Tree

I may have been a little too smug a little too soon. I was back up at the hospital today getting myself kitted out with some oral antibiotics, as my chest decided it didn't want to play ball anymore. In fact it doesn't want to play any kind of sport, whether it involved balls or not. To be fair I don't feel too bad really, just more chesty and generally tired out. I've also been having recurrent headaches of late, so I am going to get my overnight oxygen levels checked when I finish these antibiotics. However I'm more inclined to believe these are tension headaches, and suspect its directly related to the fact I'm finding work a struggle at the moment and consequently worrying myself silly about the prospect of not coping.

It's interesting that I have been pondering about work; its pros, its cons and its role in my life, because my doctor brought up this very topic today. She was observing that in the last few months my health has not been at its most stable, and indeed, has probably taken a slight downward trend. She wonders why this is. She wonders whether work interferes with my ability to tackle my CF head on. She wonders whether I have my priorities in exactly the right place. She wonders whether I should be working at all. She wonders why giving up work would, to me, seem like my world had ended.

So why do I keep working(and intend to for the foreseeable future)? In part it probably stems from some fairly dysfunctional core beliefs I have about myself. About the fact I define myself largely by my achievements and my ability to achieve. I strived hard to succeed at school, so I could secure a place at university. I strived hard at university to secure myself a successful career. And now I strive at my career...to secure what? My future. My happiness. My sense of self worth. Deep down I know that the only sure thing work will bring me is money. And we all know what money can't buy you. I know my future is my own to mould and to sculpt and to discover as it unfolds. Its something that will come around regardless of where I work, what I work as, or whether I work at all. My happiness is something that lies within myself and can probably only flourish when I stop worrying about my future. My sense of self worth is, I suspect, even more complex but if I'm looking for affirmation that I'm someone worth knowing, then surely I need only look to my family and friends and the question is answered. However, putting this frightening glimpse into the psyche of Jac aside, I do have some far more sensible and practical reasons for continuing to work. Quite simply, it gives me a reason to get up in the morning. It gives me a structure to my life and shifts my focus from health to something far less tedious and it means I am not 'just waiting' on my transplant. I enjoy my work, and I love meeting people and hopefully making a difference to someone. I am not yet ready to give that up and in fact I intend to hold onto it fairly tightly, possibly until its prised from my gnarled little fingers. I will however slacken my grip on the reigns a little, and I am planning to reduce my working hours. It seems like a fair compromise to me.

On a lighter note, I will leave you with the latest installment of Sebs eye fiasco. The return visit to the vet, did as suspected skin me another few quid, but unfortunately did not result in an 'all clear' verdict. In fact it was even worse than not all clear; it was 'still looks red AND has now spread to the other eye'. Seb was not impressed by the vets rough handling and prying open of his eyelids. Especially since this was not followed up by a small dog biscuit from the cookie jar (his usual vet has a cookie jar). In fact to illustrate just how unimpressed he was with the whole situation, on leaving the treatment room he casually sauntered past reception only pausing momentarily to lift his leg and pee up the desk. As you can see, I have brought him up well. Anyway, we ended up leaving the vets with different eyedrops, to be applied..wait for it..four times a day. Four times?? I was barely managing once daily drops. Six days later and I can safely say that Seb is pretty much traumatised by the whole scenario. A scenario that involves him being wrapped tightly in towel, with only his face showing, to prevent him batting the eyedrop bottle with his paws (which he had discovered to be very effective stalling tactic). We are due back at the vet tomorrow and I am hoping and praying for a positive outcome. Seb is simply hoping and praying its the vet with the cookie jar.