We Won't Treat Your Pain: A Different Type of Opioid Epidemic Victim

Just to get this right out front, I feel terribly for victims of the so-called Opioid Epidemic. I don't think anyone wants to have their lives controlled by pills or needles.

I recognize that addiction exists, that it is a legitimate condition, and that every single human being experiences addiction in some way, shape, or form. People have the capacity to be addicted to everything from exercise to crystal meth to chocolate to weed to cheeseburgers to tobacco to muscle relaxants to caffeine to ... well, you get the idea. Addiction is real.

For a long time after the words "Opioid Epidemic" came to be, I rolled my eyes and was not especially sympathetic.

Part of this, of course, was being married to a violent and abusive alcoholic, which developed in me the erroneous mindset that those allowing chemicals to change who they were must be weak and pathetic people indeed.

The other part was an annoyance that people tried drugs like heroin in the first place. I mean, it wasn't like every American school child in recent memory hadn't been told the dangers of drugs. I don't know anybody younger than fifty that wasn't educated about drug abuse in schools, that wasn't fully aware that shooting heroin was a dumb idea. I wasn't aware then (because I didn't care to read too closely) that those addictions were often born as the result of prescription pain medication.

I have lost people close to me from drug overdoses. There is actually a current mini-epidemic among people I went to high school with that is just breaking my heart. I am saddened and distraught that people I know, love, and respect have lost a battle with a formidable enemy.

Anyway, does it do any good to say, "Well, they never should have started in the first place?"

And then I became a victim of the Opioid Epidemic myself, if not the traditional type, and I slowly realized that the problem is much larger than people dying of overdoses, families struggling to keep it together after the loss of their loved ones, first responders and public schools trying to figure out the situation with Narcan.

I'm guessing most people have seen this meme, right? Things are pretty out of control.

So how did I become a victim, albeit not the way you would think, of the Opioid Epidemic that has so badly shaken America?

In mid-April, I had a surgery that was supposed to be pretty straightforward. Prior to the surgery, the doctor gave me a prescription for 20 oxycodones to have at home. Filled it, put in the medicine cabinet, used it sparingly alongside ibuprofen and Tylenol when I was released from the hospital, no problem.

A couple of weeks later, I developed a complication. Went to the doctor, used the rest of the oxy while dealing with significant pain, no big deal.

I don't want to get into detail about the additional complications other than tell you that they resulted in two hospitalizations, one of which was ridiculously lengthy. While in the hospital, I was able to have oxycodone every four hours once the Dilaudid pump was removed.

Anyone I e-mailed or texted during this time, I apologize. I was largely in Lala Land.

When I was discharged for the final time (well, knock on wood it's the final time), I had prescription painkillers. I also had pain, and a limited number of prescription painkillers.

The pain, though ... unspeakable pain. Keep-you-up-all-night pain. Sleep on the couch watching Grey's Anatomy because it was too hard to concentrate on a book pain (and for anyone that knows me, I can always concentrate on a book).

I called the surgeon about the pain, and they had me come in. Not unexpected, they said. Try Tylenol, they said. (I was, at this point, already alternating Tylenol and ibuprofen around the clock). Call if it gets worse. It got worse, so I called the next day and they had me come in. Not unexpected, they said. Have you tried Tylenol? Well, try alternating it with ibuprofen. Call if it gets worse. It got worse again, so I called the next day. Have you tried an ice pack? How about heat? Oh, and Tylenol should help.

I finally called my Primary Care doctor, who made a joke about all the reading he has done about me over the past few months. He's been my doctor for years, and I was very frank with him. I explained that I was in pain, horrible pain, hadn't slept in a week, and the surgeon's office did not seem to care. I was not, I told him, looking for a heavy duty prescription, but surely there must be something between Tylenol and oxycodone. He thought for a moment and said, "What did they give you in the hospital?" I told him, and he asked if it worked to control the pain.

"Well," he said, "there are a couple of in-between things I can give you, but it seems logical to me to give you what worked. I'm going to give you five oxycodones. Take it as directed, don't sell it, you know the drill. Call me if you use it all, and we'll reevaluate."

I did indeed know the drill. I needed two of those pills, by the way, then the pain was manageable with ibuprofen and Tylenol.

There were further complications, of course, but my new surgeon (because I was totally all done with the other guy) actually gave me prescription pain medication when she did a procedure. Not a lot, but the same message as my PCP--we will evaluate if you use it all. I needed it for a few days, then I was fine with ibuprofen and Tylenol.

I'm not getting into detail about what was going on, but suffice it to say that my pain wasn't in question, even by the yahoo that told me to use an ice pack. Bloodwork and CT scans supported the fact that I was in excruciating pain. This wasn't me going in and asking for pain medicine with no documentation of obvious pain. It was "Tough it out because we do  not want to be seen as contributing to the Opiate Epidemic".

I'm not saying that doctors were a little loose with the narcotics for many years, by the way. Far from it.

Ten years or so ago, I experienced recurrent pancreatitis because my liver was messed up. Pancreatitis, by the way, makes childbirth seem like a paper cut. This went on for years as they tried to fix the liver damage, and I had a standing prescription for both Percocet and Vicodin. I would call the doctor, say which I needed more of, and they'd call it in. I mean, it was ridiculously easy to get narcotics, and I know that many, many people developed opiate addictions as a result of a situation like this.

I am lucky; I do not have a propensity for opiate addiction, I guess. I've struggled with other addictions over the years--caffeine, cheeseburgers, tobacco, probably even alcohol at certain times in my life. However, opioid narcotics have never been something I've used other than for short-term pain relief.

So here is my issue with the Opioid Epidemic ...

Yes, the ease with which doctors doled out narcotics unquestionably led people to become addicts and, when the prescription pad was put away, those people turned to heroin. Doctors were irresponsible. This is a tragedy, no two ways about it. I know people that have experienced this. I know people that have died from this.

That being said, it is equally irresponsible for doctors to allow patients to suffer terrible pain, which has been happening since new regulations came with the term "Opioid Epidemic" in 2015.

I have huge respect for my PCP and my new surgeon, who have the courage to balance the dangers of opiates with the need for them. Their mindset of giving small quantities of opiates when medically indicated while being incredibly responsible in overseeing the usage of said medications seems like how it should be.

For over a week, when I was crying in pain non-stop, when I was humiliated by a doctor's office telling me to take Tylenol and use a heating pad when I'd already told them I was doing all these things, when I did not sleep and was grouchy to my family and friends, I was a victim of the Opioid Epidemic.

Doctors refused to provide the necessary help because they were afraid ... but I will tell you that pain, true and unspeakable pain, is something people should not have to experience if there is a way around it. I said to myself more than once, usually at two in the morning when I hadn't slept for an increasing number of nights, "I understand why Kurt Cobain wanted to kill himself over his chronic stomach pain ... and also how he became a heroin addict."

There is no earthly reason for someone to try to exist in the pain I was in, especially long-term. A week may not seem long-term, but when you are the person living with the pain, it is a cruel reality that cannot be put into words.

The Opioid Epidemic is generally understood as having victims that are killed by addiction. This is true, and it is terrible.

But there are other victims, too. 

Repercussions of Rape (Part I)

One night in early January of 1998, I got very drunk and had sex with my best friend.  I, of course, wanted to talk about it, even asked, "So that happened because we were so drunk, right?" because then of course we could laugh it off and move on and so on.  He said, "Being drunk had nothing to do with it."

Our friendship was a bit awkward after that, to say the least.

A couple of weeks later, we were out with a couple of his friends.  I was on my second drink at the bar (and that was when I could hold my liquor pretty well for a college girl), and suddenly I was cuckoo, like falling over my feet wasted.  It got worse instead of better, and I vaguely remember walking back to my best friend's condo.  He went upstairs with one of the other guys, and I went out to the balcony to smoke a cigarette with this guy, Tom.  I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, he gave me another beer.

**Note: I am putting in some details.  If this will bother you, please don't read it**
The next thing I remember, I was being sodomized on the pullout couch.  Words cannot express how painful it was.  When I went to cry out, I realized that my mouth felt like it had been propped open for hours.

"Stop!"I tried to yell, but it came out a whisper.  He did stop what he was doing, though.

"You shut up, bitch, or I'll kill you.  You and your little loverboy upstairs."

"He's not my--" I began, and he interrupted me by ... well, by filling up my mouth again.  I quickly realized why my mouth was so sore.

I was crying so hard, but I did it silently.

He said, "You're getting snot on my dick.  You'd better stop or I'll make you lick it off."

I guess he had an aversion to mucous, because he got on top of me and started raping me vaginally.  He had obviously spent some time doing this already.  The sheets of the pull-out couch were white, and I'd slept platonically on them with my best friend many, many times.  They were spotted with blood, I realized, and then I looked around and it occurred to me that "spotted" was a weak word.  This had clearly been going on a long time.

I begged him to stop over and over and he said, "You're really boring."

Finally, I said, "I want you to come.  I want to make you feel good."

He stopped what he was doing (briefly), got in my face, and said, "You don't have the stuff to make me come, little girl. You just don't have it."

Then I kind of blacked out again, which I'm glad about, and the next thing I know, someone is coming down the stairs.  It was, of course, my best friend, the one which I'd had drunken casual sex with just a couple weeks before.

I was so sore and doped up and naked and bloody and ashamed that I just said, "I'm going to go home, I think."

He didn't say anything.

I grabbed my clothes and ran for the bathroom.  I couldn't pee, even though I had to go terribly.  I sat there trying to make pee come out, but no luck.  When I stood to get dressed, I cried with pain and got very scared when I saw all the blood in the toilet bowl.

I flushed and went to the sink.  My hands were spotted with blood like a henna tattoo, and I used soap for what felt like forever, but even after that I don't know if the blood was gone or not.  I was still seeing it.

I walked out the door without saying goodbye and went home.  I locked the door and took a bath and looked at the bruises and felt the blood still seeping out of every orifice.  My jaw ached terribly and popped every time I went to open my mouth.  He had bitten off a piece of my nipple, and that hit me hard. I had fed my daughter with that nipple.

I laid in the bathtub until the water got cold, then I reran another tubful.  My vagina and anus were still bleeding, and I was afraid to look.  I fell asleep in the bathtub, and when I woke up I felt alive and myself, at least.

I got dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and made a grilled cheese sandwich.  I cleaned my apartment, even though it hurt terribly.  My best friend stopped by later, and I was going to tell him until I saw his face.  He had a bag with him, and he wouldn't look at me, just handed me the bag.

"The sheets," he said.  "There's blood all over them.  You ruined the sheets, but it's your blood, so maybe you won't mind how dirty they are" or something like that, and then he left.

"I had my period," I yelled after him.  "I just had my period, that's what the blood is."

He didn't listen.  He knew damn well I was lying.  He just didn't know why.

And life went on.  I put on a huge amount of weight and cut my hair short because I didn't want anyone to think of me as pretty.  I became sexually promiscuous with some pretty shady characters.  I basically gave Emily to my parents for awhile because I was such a mess.  I flunked out of college.

The woman is this picture (circa 2009) thinks the rape is behind her.  She has no idea that, even though her life is "together" on the surface, that ugliness is still inside ... and might always be there.

My parents knew that something had happened, but they didn't know what, and I certainly couldn't tell them.   They made a deal where they would pay for me to take a summer course at UNH and, if I did well, they would pay for me to go part-time in the fall, and, if that was successful, return to being a full-time student in the spring.

I had some successes in college, and that built up a bit of the confidence.  I met and married my ex-husband.  I became a teacher.  Life went on.

Until I bumped into my best friend at Wal-Mart one day in 2009 and asked if we could get a drink, that I had some things I needed to talk to him about.  That whole saga is recorded here, if you're interested in reading it.

I figured that my best friend knowing the truth would be an absolution of some sort, because I knew I had hurt him badly, and it was.

I truly believed that the rape was in the past, that I had healed, that I was over it.

This is all I can write for right now.  I'm starting to get upset and anxious, but I'll write "Repercussions of Rape Part II" in the next few days.

I will say this, to anyone who has ever been raped or molested or anything like that ... please, please, please know that it's not your fault, and know that there are people who will listen.  Sometimes it just takes awhile to be able to say the words ...

Strange Things Afoot: Freiberg's Infraction

I'm having foot surgery on Wednesday, which has been the cause of a great deal of recent angst.  And pain.  And such.

A lot of people have asked, "What's wrong? What kind of foot surgery? Did you injure it?" and so on, so I figured I'd write an explanation.

My right foot has bothered me off and on since I was in high school.  It had just been a minor annoyance with an occasional flare-up of short-lived agony until fairly recently, so it was just easier to ignore it.  It's gotten progressively worse, though, to the point where I finally went to a podiatrist.

It should be noted at this time that I hate feet.  I. HATE. FEET.

So the first time I went to the podiatrist, I received a phone call from Belle's school saying that the kids were being dismissed immediately because of a sewage issue.  When the doctor walked in for the first time, I said, "I have to go ... sewage emergency."  (I have a bad habit of saying stupid things before thinking of how they'll sound).  The doctor was very nice about it (I did elaborate, by the way, on what I meant), and I got the appointment rescheduled.

Anyway, they did x-rays and stuff at the rescheduled appointment, and I have something called Freiberg's Infraction.

Which, by the way, doesn't show up anywhere--not WebMd, not anywhere!  I didn't pay attention when the doctor was explaining the condition because I figured I'd just Google it, but it was crazy.  The only stuff I could find was written by doctors, and I don't speak science.  My mother, who usually translates medical jargon for me, was in Ireland when I received this news, so I rather hysterically started stalking my sister (she's a microbiologist, which is obviously different from a medical doctor, but she does speak "doctor").  Mary, as always, came through for me, learning more about Freiberg's Infraction than most doctors, I think, and even making a model of where my surgery scar will be and such.

So, basically, I injured my foot when I was a teenager (before the growth plate closed).  The second metatarsal, to be exact.  Over time, the cartilage between my second toe and the metatarsal bone disappeared, then the bone itself started breaking down (the official word is "necrosed", which of course means "dead" ... have I mentioned that I hate feet?).

It's gotten to the point where it is very painful, and the toe will "pop out" (I don't know how to put it better than that) once in awhile, which freaking kills.

So, yeah, surgery on Wednesday to reshape the bone and such.  Gross.  I hate feet ;-p

The pain is such, however, that I can't decide if I'm dreading this surgery or looking forward to it (because I want it to stop hurting).

Yeah, the recovery doesn't sound like much fun either.

For three days, I have to sit on my ass with my foot elevated above my heart.  Ice on for an hour, off for an hour.  Painkillers.  Not able to do anything.

The sitting on my ass/elevating foot is a constant for two weeks.  I can't drive.  I have to wear a sexy surgical shoe.

I don't do well with sitting on my ass.  I am feeling claustrophobic at the very thought of not being able to drive.  I'm glad that I got a few gift certificates to Barnes and Noble for my birthday last month as I'm going to to be racking up the Nook purchases.  There's always TV, I suppose.  A lot of family coming for Thanksgiving.  Missing work (ugh!) and not being able to do jack for a couple of weeks.

I'm just trying to focus on how nice it will be when this is over and my foot doesn't hurt on a regular basis.  It's just going to be a pain--both literal and figurative--getting there.

Health Update--Kind of a Funny Story

Okay, actually, it's kind of a gross story.  I just e-mailed my mother with the gory details, so I'm probably going to paste that e-mail here because a lot of people have been so caring and supportive of my recovery from the concussion that I feel an obligation to keep y'all updated.

Also, it just gets more and more surreal and reminds me how lucky I am to be able to laugh at life since, as I've been saying a lot for the past week and a half, "Why does this sort of thing always happen to me?"

I've had a fair amount of pain medicine, so this might not be coherent, but here's the bottom line.

I went back to work on Monday.  I was soooooooooooo glad to see my students and my friends at work and stuff.  I was exhausted and headachy by the end of the day (and there was the barfing incident during third period), but I'd made a goal to make it through all of my classes, and I did it.  I went home fully expecting to get my grades caught up and go to bed and have all be right with the world.

Yeah, not so much.

As yesterday afternoon and evening went along, I got a ridiculous headache that sort of joined with some tooth pain I'd been having for a few days.  I've been pretty sure for a few days that I had an abscessed tooth, but I was going to wait until vacation (next week) to deal with.  I mean, in the great scheme of things health-wise, it seemed pretty small.

Yeah, that headache plus toothache kept me up virtually all night.  The pain was so awful that I was pacing the house and crying and going on Facebook to complain about not being able to sleep and ... yeah.  BAD night.

Needless to say, I didn't think going to work today was a good idea.  My original plan was to take painkillers until I fell asleep (stupid, I know, but lack of sleep is a huge problem for me under the best of circumstances, and ...) so I could actually get some rest.

Instead, I called the dentist.

To make a long story short, I had two serious problems.

First, when I fell in the shower and landed first on my face, I severely bruised most of my front upper teeth.  This would explain much of my continued pain.  Nerves are a funny thing, and who knew that tooth bruising would make your head hurt?  She was shocked that I hadn't felt pain in my teeth more directly as, over a week after the fall, the bruising was still pretty intense and showed up very clearly on the x-rays (dental x-rays are very cool, and so is my dentist ... she gave me a crash course in reading them today, and it was fascinating).

Secondly, and more significantly, the fall made whatever infection was going on in one of my back upper molars run completely amok.  Amok to the point where it had to be extracted.  Like, immediately.  Well, that's not exactly true--my dentist's office got me an appointment for an hour and a half after I left their office, which is pretty cool considering that, while I was at the oral surgeon's, people were calling to make appointments for extractions and they were booking into mid-March.

Yup, I was a bona-fide emergency.  How exciting ... (God, do I want my boring old life back when playing with my kids and hanging with Henry was how I spent my time!!!!)

So I had a tooth extracted today, fortunately a way-back molar that hopefully no one will notice until I get an implant.  The crazy part?  I think the pressure and nasty fluids swelling the now-gone tooth played a huge role in why I've been struggling with headaches and pain for this long.

I'm starting to zone out from the pain meds, plus the story's about to get a bit more graphic and disgusting, so I'm going to cop out and paste the e-mail I sent to my momma so you can get the details if you want.

Thank you for the thoughts, prayers, and love that people have sent my way ... I'm a lucky woman.

Hi Mommy,

It was horrible :-(  The doctor was really, really nice (like, if anyone had to have a tooth extracted, I would recommend him in a second), but it hurt so much!  The thing is, I don't know if you remember, but this is the first tooth I had a root canal done on and they had a really hard time getting it numb...I can still remember that from all those years ago, and let me just say that it's still not an area that is conducive to Novocaine, which I had to have in the roof of my mouth several times today.  Oh my God, Mommy, it was horrible.  Anyway, he'd get started, and then it would hurt, so he'd put more Novocaine in, then he'd do a little more, then it would hurt, and it was a horrible cycle.  He and the dental assistant/nurse person were really nice and patient, but ... owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.  He said a lot of it was probably because it was so infected, but ... yeah, owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.  And I took out the gauze when I got home to change it, and I can't get another piece of gauze in to fit comfortably, and ... did I mention owwwwwwwwwwwww?  I took two Vicodins that Dr. Myregulardenstis gave me, so hopefully they'll kick in soon because this freaking kills.

On a positive note, I'm almost positive that it's what was causing the horrible headache.  It hurts a lot where the tooth was (I think I mentioned that already ;-)), but there was a ton of pus and drainage and other lovely stuff, so hopefully I will be feeling better.  Ironically, other than the acute pain (I have to say it one more time ... owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww), there's almost like a huge relief of pressure in my whole head area.  In fact, I feel more like myself at this moment (on two Vicodins lol) than I have since I fell in the stupid shower in the first place.

I don't need anything at the moment (other than to figure out how to get the stupid gauze to fit, but that's something I'm just going to have to figure out for myself :-)), but I do have to get a prescription filled (more Vicodin, muahaha) and something to eat for the next couple of days.  Yeah, today we're talking liquid and that's it, tomorrow I can move on to yogurt and mashed potatoes for a couple of days, and then play it by ear from there.  Oh, and no straws :-(  Well, you and I WERE talking Weight Watchers, and it'll be hard to snarf down Big Macs and Girl Scout cookies in this state.  Every cloud has a silver lining, right?

I know you'll be home late, but do you know how late?  I am hoping to avoid the grocery story as I look like I got punched in the face and the bloody gauze hanging out is very attractive ... I'll drop off the prescription when I go to get the Fairy.

I think that's about it ... sorry this is so long.  Oh, also, I hid in the bathroom when the dog walking lady came.  Please don't judge ... I'm scared of her.  The funny thing is, Sonja and Mollie didn't want to go with her ... they were pretty much scratching at the bathroom door to be with me.  It should have been on YouTube, seriously ...

Love you,

:-) K
--- On Tue, 2/21/12, KLo's Mommy wrote:

From: KLo's Mommy
Subject: tooth
To: KLo
Date: Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 6:15 PM

Hi,

Glad you made it home…was it very painful to have it out?  Can you feel the difference now that the pressure is out of there?

Sorry for so many questions, I am just trying to make sure you are ok.  Do you need anything?  I am so sorry that you are going through this.

Love, Mom

Sometimes the Stars Align

I've been thinking a lot today about how sometimes the universe gives you what you need, even if there is a cost that makes it seem less than sweet at the time. My great gift of the past week or so? Pancreatitis. Yes, I'm serious.

Pancreatitis is just what it sounds like, an inflammation of the pancreas. What cannot be put into words, however, is how painful it is. At its worst, it feels as though someone is drilling through your upper abdomen and all the way through to your back--it is relentless and there is no relief. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to wear a bra, it hurts to move, and I don't just mean "hurts" ... I mean agony. And my pain threshold is pretty high.

I have chronic pancreatitis as the result of a liver issue. Basically, when they tried to repair some damage to my liver, the doctors messed up my pancreas for life (I was in the hospital on a morphine drip for nearly a month following what was supposed to be a minor surgical procedure). It's a long and not terribly interesting story, but the bottom line is that I have occasional flare-ups that are incredibly painful but usually fairly short-lived--I haven't been hospitalized in almost two years.

Like pretty much any other chronic medical condition, stress and lack of adequate rest are contributing factors in the frequency and intensity of the flare-ups.

I am under an enormous amount of stress at work that, as I've mentioned before, I can't get into, much as I'd like to (I vent like crazy on my secret, hidden blog, though ;-)). Suffice it to say that I for the first time am wondering about some people's agendas--if you are not in the education field to educate children, then why in the world don't you go bring your two-faced, backstabbing tendencies into a job where it would be beneficial, like a collection agency or a law firm or Abu Ghraib?

I also have a tendency to burn the proverbial candle at both ends, which is nobody's fault but my own.

On Wednesday morning, a pancreatitis flare-up came out of the clear blue sky like a gunshot (kind of felt like a gunshot, too :-(). It was so bad that I called the doctor to make an appointment (I refuse to go to the ER in general because they'll make me stay in the hospital for a week and I just can't do that) ... and I also cried in a meeting, which is most unlike me.

So I went to the doctor that afternoon, by which time the pain was still pretty bad but not wall-punching, tear-inducing unbearable. She did bloodwork (and was unsurprised with the results), gave me more Percocet, and suggested I go to the ER if it got unspeakable again. I explained that this was not going to happen, so she told me that I had to take the next day (Thursday) off from work and wrote a note to this effect.

Yeah, I HATE to miss work and had been out four days the week before because I was in Vermont doing work on a school reaccreditation team. So I went to work on Thursday and had what might well have been my worst day ever in terms of losing any last shred of respect I could potentially have ever had for a couple of my colleagues. It was dreadful and, as I was exhausted and in a tremendous amount of pain, I decided to take Friday off so that I could hopefully get some rest and start to bounce back a little bit.

Best decision ever.

I have been resting (like, sitting down, only getting up to pee or get some more ginger ale resting) for three days. I've been reading a lot and writing even more--this blog, for example, a place that I swore never to abandon, had been kind of abandoned, and it's been great to be able to post a few pieces. I wrote some pieces for Zelda Lily that I'm really proud of--one on direct instruction in areas like empathy for school children, for example, and one on baby steps (but steps nonetheless) being taken to address sexual abuse in males which is kind of a forbidden topic--and I even revisited my second novel, the one that's 3/4 of the way finished, and got some ideas for directions to go in.

I relaxed with my kids, my mother, and my dog. It's rare for us to all be home together, but it was a nice treat. I would have enjoyed it even more if I'd been able to eat something other than chicken broth, but then again, maybe that's part of what made it so enjoyable, joking around about all the good stuff they were eating (popcorn with extra butter while watching The Perfect Storm ... mmmmmm, I was so jealous!). And Addie, who got her license on Friday, drove by herself to an event at her school, and Belle and I got to read a lot together.

So it's Sunday night now, and I'm feeling pretty good physically. I'm also feeling really good emotionally, and I think it's kind of interesting that somehow the stars aligned so that I could have a few days to do nothing but rest, to recharge my batteries, to worry only about feeling better.

I wish that it hadn't taken a 10 on the pain scale to get me to slow down and take it easy for a couple of days, but I'm kind of dense about the small stuff--taking care of myself physically, for example--sometimes.

Thank you, stars, or God, or fate, or karma, or whatever. I really needed this little rest!

Alone

Do you ever get the feeling that you're completely alone, that everyone you ever loved and trusted and believed in and blah blah blah turned out to be nothing that you thought they were?

It is so frightening to realize that, no matter what you do, no matter what you give, it is never quite good enough.

I wouldn't mind so much if I hadn't been burned so severely in the past two years. Family, friends, significant others ... and it's not really their fault, it's just that nobody seems to be who I think they are.

I guess I'm just a very bad judge of human nature.

And so I will stop believing in people.

Haha, that's funny ... believing in people is my fatal flaw, the very essence of who I am. I'll feel differently tomorrow.

For tonight, though ... I am alone in the universe, and it hurts so much.

Of Pancreases and Pinot Grigio

On my "hot date" with Belle last night, I ate fried chicken. I know better, but I did it anyway. Yeah, fried chicken. Dipped in blue cheese dressing. It was freaking amazing.

It also wreaked havoc on my pancreas to the point where I was biting belts and stuff to keep from screaming. No fun, but again--my own damn fault. I don't get a pancreatitis attack every time I eat fried chicken (or cheese or french fries or pizza or whatever might have a high fat content), but I'm aware that the potential is there. It's like playing Russian Roulette with a taser. I'll be really good for awhile and not have trouble, so I'll forget just how awful the pain is (multiply childbirth by maybe fifty--yes, I'm serious).

I feel bad for my Facebook friends--I posted asking for advice on whether to go to the ER for pain meds (my Darvocet was all gone :()or not since I usually end up being admitted (IV pain meds controlled through a hospital environment are far better for my situation)and I just don't have time for that. Anyway, my friends are wonderful--they kept me focused on their input while the pain was at its worst (I was also in the parking lot of Addie's school waiting for her to get back from a competition) and I went home and took a lot more Advil (and Valium and Ambien) and went to bed.

Not a pleasant experience, but it almost certainly wouldn't have happened if I'd been smart and avoided the fried chicken (and the blue cheese). I have to take ownership of that--sometimes I don't treat my body well, and there can be consequences.

Part of me wanted to go directly to the ER, get some fentanyl action going or a morphine drip, demoral mixed with the anti-nausea stuff that would have solved all of my physical problems. Bam, I'd be floating in lala land. I wouldn't have to worry about what I'm teaching tomorrow (emergency sub plans, and I'd be so out of it I wouldn't realize how much I was shafting my students). I wouldn't have to figure out how to get Addie and Belle to and from school--if I'm in the hospital, someone else (my mother, maybe my father and stepmother, aunts, uncles), but it wouldn't have to be me. Laying out clothes, driving to work, taking the dogs out, all the issues big and small belong to someone else while you're in the hospital. And most importantly, no pain.

Well, I decided that the hospital wasn't an option no matter how much it hurt (unless I lost consciousness, which has happened before). That was that. I told myself I could hold on until Monday when I can get some more Darvocet through my regular doctor (who understands the particular struggles with being my regular doctor), and I've managed to do it. I had chicken broth for dinner and a really great bottle of water for lunch, and I'm still in quite a bit of pain, but I did it. I balanced the pros and cons of the situation, and I realized that taking care of my girls and going to work was more important than feeling no pain.

So that's the pancreas part of the post. Now, onto the Pinot Grigio (have some for me--the pancreas is rather fussy about alcohol, too).

So, after going several days without a coherent conversation and three days with no contact at all, Pythagorus calls. He promised Belle a week ago that we would meet at the bowling alley today--didn't happen, along with more than half the phone calls he was supposed to make to her. Well, not to worry; Pythagorus has figured out what he needs. He needs--drum roll--to be hospitalized for all the stress and anxiety in his life.

The stress and anxiety in HIS life? I mean, is he shitting me? I know this might sound insensitive, but when you're over thirty and you've basically destroyed your relationship with your children and all you have to do--and I mean ALL--is go to work and not drink, wouldn't you think this would be doable? The truth is, Pythagorus' stress and anxiety come from two places: first, the fact that he screwed up badly, and he cannot handle the fact that he made a mistake. Second, he was raised by a family that belongs on Jerry Springer and, instead of going to counseling and dealing with it, he drinks and berates (and/or avoids) me when I hold him accountable for anything.

Yeah, so Pythagorus can't handle his own failures, so he wants to go to the hospital to hide. If the hospital saw my amylase and lipase levels right now, they'd force me in. And yet, I refuse to let that happen.

It occurs to me that this is an interesting metaphor--and in a way, the crucifixion-reminiscent stabbing pain in my stomach is like a scream of triumph, like Mel Gibson's William Wallace screaming, "Freedom!!!!" as he is literally pulled to pieces.

I wonder what Pythagorus sees when he looks in the mirror sometimes. He was not a lying, sneaky coward when I married him ... but somehow I don't think "hospitalization for stress and anxiety" is going to bring back the man I once loved.

Damn, I think my pancreas is laughing ;)

Charlie Brown's Football

You know the scene from Peanuts where Lucy is always trying to get Charlie Brown to try to kick the football she's holding? The football she always yanks away at the last second? The football she always swears up and down to Poor Old Chuck that she is not going to yank away this time, that he just needs to believe her?

What does it say about Charlie Brown that he is able to be talked into believing that she will hold the football in place? Is he stupid? Gullible? Or just someone who thinks that kicking the football is worth the pain and humiliation? That feels strongly about giving someone else the benefit of the doubt, even when betrayed and hurt every time?

And how about Lucy? What sort of person would again and again convince someone to give them a second (and third ... and fourth ... and infinite) chance knowing the whole time they're going to just yank it away?

The Human Condition

As any of you that read the post I wrote last night know, I have some drama going on in my personal life. It was intended to be posted on my personal blog (and I've since moved it there) but, as it was posted here in the first place, I realize that many people read it, and many gave good wishes, thoughts, and prayers. All are appreciated. I want you to know that I am fine, that things will eventually work out as they always seem to in life in the way that fate means them to.

What stood out to me the most, though, was how we can all relate to the human condition, to the tremendous pain (in any of its manifestations) that impacts all of humanity. It seems that this deep-seated hurt, this feeling of being so overwhelmed by pain that you don't know what to do, is something that everyone can understand, that everyone has felt on some level.

Can anyone truly understand someone else's pain, or just the depth of agony someone else is feeling? Is there a point in sharing your private hurts in detail, or is it enough to say, "Gee, you know, I have some bad stuff going down right now?"

And really, in the great scheme of things, is there anything anyone can do about the pain of others other than sympathize, empathize, send good thoughts and well wishes, and hope and pray that things will change for the better?

Is the human condition unique to each human, or do we all feel the same pain, just suffered (and dealt with, I suppose) in different ways?

Loneliness

Is it possible to be surrounded by people constantly yet still be lonely beyond words? To feel that nobody understands what is in your heart and your mind? To have turned to endeavors like writing (as well as other self-destructive acts that shall remain nameless) in an attempt to fill up that terrible aching emptiness? To know for a veritable fact that absolutely nobody understands you?

Is writing a salve?

Is writing a calling?

And what is the correlation between writing and loneliness? Based on my research, there has to be one, at least as a general rule.

Oh, God, I wish I could be an exception to this one ...

Somebody Else's Pain

Pain is part of being human, and it manifests itself in a myriad of ways. We all deal with pain differently, obviously, from punching walls to crying uncontrollably (that would be me) to pretending your pain doesn't exist.

What I've found over the past couple of days, though, is that the pain that someone else is going through can distress you far worse than any sort of hurt inside yourself. One of my friends just suffered a miscarriage. She has been trying to conceive for a very long time, was finally successful, was probably more excited about it than anyone I've ever seen, and now ...

I mean, what do you say? I'm so sorry? My thoughts and prayers are with you? Is there anything I can do? Want to go get very drunk, shoot some pool, and listen to bad music?

The truth is, there is nothing you can say in some situations. Calling or e-mailing or visiting or whatever, wouldn't it just be a reminder? I've been in contact, sent my regrets and good thoughts, and so have a plethora of other people, but when push comes to shove, does that just make it worse?

I keep my pain very close to the vest. Most of the very traumatic things that have happened to me are things I do not speak of. They're things that I do not write of. They are things that, like my friend's little temporary miracle, there's just nothing anybody can say or do to make them better. Time passes. Life goes on. You don't forget, and the pain never goes away.

I am incredibly fortunate, I think, in that I've started to categorize some of my own horrific events. The things that it's possible to come to terms with, to overcome, I've made some steps. One of the greatest realizations is being able to incorporate some of my greatest pain into fiction, thereby giving myself some control over it, if that makes any sense.

However, I remain mystified as to what to do with somebody else's pain. I can give hugs. I can make people laugh pretty readily. I can offer all the positive thoughts in the world, but it is not going to change my friend's pain.

I hate being powerless, but even more so, I hate to see people I care about in so much pain. I just hate it!

Middle-of-the-Night Awareness of Life's Fragility

I woke up suddenly and completely at around quarter of three this morning (it's now 3:07) in a serious state of pain.

I have chronic pancreatitis as the result of a liver situation, and every time I wake up in abdominal agony, my mind starts racing that I'm on my way back to the hospital for another week (or two weeks ... or, God forbid, another month) on a morphine drip. Having that medical condition--that degree of pain always a potential hanging over my lives--has in its way scarred me more than anything else.

In light of what happened to poor Natasha Richardson--taking a hard but seemingly not too hard fall while having a nice day of skiing with her kids, never knowing that she would be dead for most intents and purposes in just a few short hours--I can't help but reflect on the fragility of life. You never know when it's coming for you, where it's waiting for you.

I guess I'm not making much sense. It's three in the morning, give me a break : ) I'm 99.9% sure that my abdominal pain (fading now, thank God) has nothing to do with my pancreas or liver. I mean, my entire digestive system is screwed up beyond reason because of the surgeries and stents, so it's not like pain is infrequent. It's just not usually this bad. It's usually only the monster of pancreatitis that wakes me up crying in the middle of the night.

Well, I'm going back to bed now. Just figured I'd share my dubious wisdom on the subject of life's fragility ... but I don't think I did a very good job with that either ...

Good night : )

Kids in Distress: Just Wrong

Sometimes I wonder why children are at times forced to deal with a degree of pain that most adults cannot handle easily.

There are some terrible things in the world, and I just wish there was a way to protect kids from this ugliness. Obviously, this isn't possible, and certainly working through horrible events can be character-building and an opportunity for growth. The greatest devastation can ultimately give the most valuable lessons.

I just wish you could get those things without the pain. Or maybe I just wish there was some sort of age line so it doesn't happen to kids. Or some sort of warning. Maybe a little heads-up.

My heart and thoughts and prayers are with your family, both biological and the greater community.