This lockdown simultaneously lasted longer and ended sooner than anticipated.
Work wanted proof of staff vaccination status, which hadn’t shown up in my Medicare records despite having been over a month since my first dose. There were some phone calls to Medicare, the immunisation register, and the pharmacy who administered it, ultimately leading me back to the pharmacy in-person to grab a print out from them to provide work.
The issue was the usual culprit:
I still have not changed my incomprehensibly long non-English legal name.
They aren’t my regular pharmacy (who at that time were unable to provide COVID-19 vaccinations) and I’d forgotten to explain that my Medicare card is non-standard and contains neither multiple generations nor an entire family tree.
Shout out to the character-limit that time I changed banks.
While my second dose was originally booked for the 11th of November, the pharmacy had advised that it was okay to bring it forward to 8 rather than 12 weeks.
To be honest, I was pretty fixated on the idea of it needing to be 12 weeks and it took no small amount of reassurance from medical professionals, coworkers, family members, and the unrefined raw organic terror of lockdown ending a week early to finally convince me.
It worked out to around 10 weeks, so not a drastically shorter interim, and I was able to go to my regular pharmacy where they’re familiar with the expansive fantasy novel that comprises my legal name. Not that I expect the paperwork would go wrong twice, but I’m deeply unhappy and exhausted and afraid and keeping to familiar environments is a reliable way to avoid exacerbating any of that.
All the Medicare documentation was updated and accessible within about 5 minutes, like? I was still sitting around waiting the mandatory 15-minute allergy monitoring time when it all came through, which might just be a lucky timing thing, given a full and hearty 24 hours is usually cited for that sort of bureaucracy. Nevertheless I deeply appreciate every second I now get to spend not having to think about it.
Would love to stop thinking entirely some days.
Pictured: The relentless anxiety of existing under capitalism.
Currently in the process of weaning off pregabalin, which I was put on shortly before the diclofenac incident*, in attempt to manage whatever the fuck is going on with my spine. Which… at the end of the day? My spine has, apparently, always been fuck’d. It hurts, don’t get me wrong, but simply knowing that it’s real helps a lot. Having the correct diagnosis** makes it significantly more manageable, like, physically, even without medication.
Pregabalin affects my ability to think, and while this is certainly beneficial in getting to sleep, the benefits do not out-weigh the side-effects when you’re constantly exhausted and no longer able to adequately follow a conversation.
One day maybe I’ll get to talk to a neurologist about whether or not I’m a suitable candidate for surgery to ease the pressure on the affected nerves?
But my budget doesn’t allow for such frivolous luxuries right now.
Hope you’re all taking care of each other out there. Admittedly I’ve missed observing the public and maybe the lockdowns have been more detrimental than I’m willing to admit?
But I’ll never admit it.
*Internal haemorrhaging: it’s more likely than you think!
**RSI: it’s less likely than you think!