#meet the insomniac emt

[joaquinastacioyflores]

is that DIEGO LUNA? oh, no, that’s JOAQUIN ASTACIO Y FLORES, a FORTY year old EMT AT VALAPARAISO CENTRO MEDICO who uses HE/HIM pronouns. they currently live in LAS VILLAS DORADAS in QUILPUE, and the character they identify with most is DR COX FROM SCRUBS. hopefully they find their own little paradise here in el país de los poetas!

basics

full name: joaquin rafael astacio y flores age: 40 date of birth: december 28th, 1983 zodiac: capricorn sun, cancer rising, scorpio moon gender & pronouns: cisgender man, he/him relationship status: single sexuality: bisexual spoken languages: english, spanish occupation: emt at valaparaiso centro medico

appearance

face claim: diego luna height: 5'10"(117.8 cm) dominant hand: right hair color: brown eye color: brown distinguishing features: tbd tattoos: tbd

personality

positive traits: hard-working, compassionate, intelligent, reliable, passionate negative traits: sarcastic, impatient, overworked, touchy, harsh

mentality

phobias: fear of failure disorders: n/a allergies: n/a

background

hometown: viña del mar, chile birthplace: valaparaiso, chile education level: bachelor's in emergency medical services

headcanons

first became interested in emergency medicine as career by watching medical drama tv shows. once he got older and realized how unrealistic these shows are, his interest shifted more to the aspect of helping people. joaquin also really likes the fast-paced environment of working in emergency services, though it is sometimes overwhelming for him. his guilty pleasure is telenovelas and he doesn't tell anyone except his close friends. this probably started because his mom watched them and he got invested but is too embarrassed to admit it. when he's off the clock and he's not out he can be caught catching up on his favorites. enjoys going out to bars and browsing the street market in his free time. joaquin doesn't drink very much but he enjoys the atmosphere and talking to other people. new vendors pop up all the time in the street market so he always feels like there's something new to discover, whether it's food or someone's creation. is perpetually exhausted, from a combination of being on call a lot and insomnia. with the irregular hours of his job he has a hard time getting a manageable sleep schedule. he has tried melatonin, white noise, essential oils, you name it, they tend to just help him for a short period of time and then it goes back to him not being able to sleep. in-between trips he tends to powernap, though he's usually woken up before he gets any real rest.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Week 4, day 31, radiation 21

Those of you familiar with me in private life will be aware that I am not a morning person. At all. This isn’t some sort of dark, vampire secret or anything; most of my neighbors - whom I wouldn’t encounter outside of working hours anyway - seem aware of this personality trait (I also have a terrifying, glow-in-the-dark, nightmare pale coloring that can only be maintained by completely unaware of the hours between midnight and 11 am)(or prolonged stays in caves). Which is why one of the weirder aspects of this whole cancer shenanigans is the constant rewriting of my internal clock (I mean, I’m normally awake during daylight hours and asleep in the hours of darkness, but anything else is fairly fluid these days). Which, I suppose, is what happens when you combine an insomniac with Woody Allen-type paranoia (and becoming a crazed, paranoid hypochondriac after three brain tumors isn’t a mental degradation; it’s a simple acknowledgment of reality; but I digress) with the Hunter Thompson/Robert Plant held-together-by-drugs lifestyle. Which is not an endorsement or judgment on that lifestyle, merely an honest admission that I am - by doctor’s orders (mostly; I will admit to taking more tylenol and slightly more zofran than advised) - putting all sorts of strange substances into my body (and, again, when you are - on a professional’s recommendation - exposed to more radiation than some Hiroshima survivors, all bets are off). Which have many effects (the best one being, I hope, to stay alive and mostly-intact), but one of them is that my sleep schedule nowadays resembles a bizarre lunar calendar of pagan festivities. Some days I sleep 19 hours. Some days, I sleep three. The common, underlying theme throughout this experience has been that, since treatment started a month ago; I really don’t seem to be able to lie about in bed languidly. Of course, I had a bit of trouble with that beforehand (as a former EMT coworker pointed out, I have two speeds - sleep and sprint), but it has definitely been brought to the fore by man’s unnatural manipulations of my physiology. Which means that I don’t get up at an early hour, and kind of spend an hour or two coming to my senses. Which I kind of miss, but it’s hardly a major sacrifice.

All of which is an extremely roundabout way of saying that I was upright and fully-ready for mayhem at 7 am this morning. And there was no one else in the household (don’t worry, nothing burned down or died). Which then meant that I rung in the new dawn the way God intended; with a cell-phone-connected stereo, lots of high-quality coffee, and a massive heart-hostile breakfast. And it was great. When you lose agency - in my case, the ability to plan for life after six months (and drive)(and not be attached to an NSAID salt-lick)(but I digress), you kind tend to flail and over-compensate for the few things you can control. And it’s always tinged by the dark possibility that this may be the last time you can do this activity. It sucks, but it does add a slight bittersweetness to the experience (which went well with my coffee, which had hazelnut overtones). This might be the very last breakfast I make, and that limitation sucks. But, if this is the last one, it’s not a bad note to end breakfasts on. There were eggs, vegetables, toast, etc. all in 19-lb. frying pans cooked over massive flames (we have a flame-top grill), as God intended. It was great. HOWEVER...

It does bear mentioning that, as is so ever the case, there is always a serpent in paradise. In this morning’s celebrations, it was the range hood. Like any good stove, ours has a hood. What’s different about our hood is that it’s about 5′7″ high - which puts it perfectly in the danger zone for any many between 5′8″ and 6′4″. Which, by a very strange coincidence, encompasses the height of all the men in my immediate family. I have seen my brother and father snag themselves on this insidious, oversized hunk of steel (and that’s not even some quasi-hypothetical “in the dark reaches of the past” statement - Dad smacked himself on this thing just a week ago while grilling salmon). I have done it, myself, many times. Today, however, StoveTop Satan struck at me from my most vulnerable angle. As those of you familiar with proceedings will recall, I have some rather nasty pains along my suture lines - think of a very large, upside-down U over my right ear - to the point where Radiation Oncologist recently prescribed something to reduce inflammation (and pain) at the site. Today, ladies and gentlemen; somehow, while, taking a step back from the eggs to reset the coffee machine, the damned hood struck a mighty blow. Right. On. The. Center. Of. My. Surgery. Scars. Now, it should be noted that, 12-ish hours later, there seem to be no major repercussions (apart swallowing OTC painkillers by the bottle)(don’t do that at home, kids, I’m a professional neurology patient). However, the phrase “pray for death” (which is also the title of an amazing ninja movie) did describe me for the better part of the hour. So, I had a good breakfast and got a good (albeit painful) story out of it, which might make it the perfect breakfast for me. Sort of. I mean it’s far from the ideal, but my governing philosophy at every step of my life has been, “If it can’t be perfect, at least give me a good story out of it.” Well, that and some good coffee.

Anyway, due to some scheduling conflicts, I wasn’t able to leave the house before my appointed radiation therapy (I’m still losing hair) and Warlock A (who, remember, wanted to check on me after the most recent serum infusion). Now, for those readers wanting to know some of those little tell-tale signs about the quality of a physician (or their team), pay close attention. You may recall that I got a call late Wednesday afternoon from Research Coordinator that Warlock A (not to be confused with Warlock B)(or Mad Scientist Oncologist)(or Radiation Oncologist) wanted me to drop by at my earliest convenience, to ensure speedy release of Serum Infusion #5 and continued quality of care. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, we arrived at an almost-mutually-agreed-upon appointment for late this afternoon. Yesterday - 36 hours ago - I got a call from Research Coordinator confirming this appointment, with the addendum that I should check into the clinic after my radiation appointment, and they might be able to get to me before Saturday morning. Because this is Socal, and traffic factors must always be considered, Dad and I arrived at the radiation clinic very early, and, because the radiation folks here are all top-notch (or very fast, anyway), I was in the clinic lobby almost two hours before the appointed meeting time with Warlock A. So I called Research Coordinator. I called him a second time. He finally returned my call, stating that I was much earlier anticipated, but he’d see if he couldn’t pry Warlock A from the communal cauldron. Folks, within an hour of walking into the hospital, Warlock A was in the lobby, telling me that it might take a bit, but they were working on finding an exam room. Not even twenty minutes later, I was recounting my weird hang-over-y symptoms to Warlock A (remember, this is for his pet drug study, so he wants to know if I have an unexpected hang-nail)(again, selling your body for money is dangerous; selling your body to save your life might be the crucial difference between having a body and, well, not). Warlock A also took my DMV med forms and said he’d fill them out and/or look into them (as he noted, the weird, arbitrary deadline the DMV assigned me to get my paperwork in on time wouldn’t actually count a total of 90 days between my seizure and the paperwork)(I mean, I guess it’s good they can do basic math and have my records, but it’s still annoying). THEN, after listening to me gripe about my woes and problems, told me that the worst symptoms - sleep and fatigue-wise - would occur in the next ten-odd days.

I almost laughed at that. Since day 1 - Hell, since before then, when I was still recovering from surgery - everyone has had dramatically different statements as to when the “worst” symptoms would occur. Now, to be fair, all parties have been fairly accurate, when you take time to examine the fine-print. Yes, the “worst” symptoms - hair-loss and nausea (sort of; I just started chewing my zofran) - showed up in the third week. Yes, the “worst” symptoms, like fatigue and insomnia, started in the second week. It really does make me want to see my funeral, because, at the current rate; the eulogy will end with, “Sure, he looks awful now, but wait a few weeks.” Which, again, is totally accurate, but not exactly helpful to me. Anyway, tune in tomorrow for more symptoms, Or more stories of betrayal by major kitchen appliances.