One last thing

This afternoon/evening was a cousin's wedding.  It was lovely.  I actually put product in my hair, wore makeup, and shaved my legs.  Impressive, if I do say so myself.  I wore a skirt I found in a box in my storage unit (yes, pink).  And I wore shoes with a one inch heel.  That was a treat.

I sat and stood for too long.  I came home and sat on an icepack and now, coming in from an abbreviated walk with my dogs, I am in quite a bit of pain - enough for an off-schedule pain killer.

But here is the thing about the whole affair.  Weddings aren't great for people just coming off a divorce.  I felt sad and cynical and lonely.  I was amid family and had a great time with them (especially looking through In Style with my SIL).  But I felt loss and regret.  Listening to the couple make their vows, I remembered when I did it and how I was so scared I have no idea what I actually vowed to do.  But I remembered exchanging the rings and the first married kiss and all of that.  I also remember breaking my toe that night on the roof of our hotel and that was really, really painful.

I am reminded of Cocorosie lyrics:

Life is like a rollercoaster

It does flips and throws you over

Board your ship that’s going nowhere

If you stop, you’ll end up somewhere

The middle

Nope - not referring to the Jimmy Eat World song.  Instead, I am referring to that far off, fantastical place I can never seem to find.  I am a woman of extremes, of the all or nothing persuasion, leaning off course toward all (read: perfectionism) and in absence of it wanting nothing.

Case in point.

This week I realized not only do I hate being on painkillers, but they did not bring the superwoman-like powers I so mistakingly believed the would.  Coming to the rather shocking and painful (stabbing painful) reality of this, put me in the dumps.  If I couldn't start doing every single thing I wanted to do right then, well by hell I wasn't going to do any of it.

Today I had a couple of realizations.  First, if I drink like three cups of coffee, I can stay awake while taking painkillers.  Two, all hopped up on caffeine I realized even if I couldn't do everything, I could at least do some things.

So I came home, donned my "butt shoes" and iPod and took off down the road for an intentioned long walk.  Fifteen minutes in I had developed freaking epic blisters.  I went home early, but still happy to have done it at all.  I'm going to do some more stuff tomorrow.  Maybe 10 songs on "Just Dance" or something.

I do realize this has been a recurring theme in this blog, in my life.  Bear with me, sometimes it takes many, many lessons for me to figure it out.

Feeling frustration, attempting gratitude

What is it about human nature, or maybe just my nature, to want and want and want?  I get one thing and I want more, more, more!

As you know, this week I went to the doctor and I got some pain killers.  It is amazing to be in less pain, so much less pain.  But the flip side is that I am drugged.  My schedule revolves around taking drugs and sleeping off drugs.  I can do more and that's wonderful, but usually I am too damn tired.  Or I'm not too tired and I bust out the inner superwoman and get in a lot of trouble pain-wise.

I know it's an adjustment, but I want more.  And I hold myself to this impossibly high standard of perfection that does no one favors, least of all me.

The other issue is that I'm re-thinking even having a pain pump at all.  I was interested in the spinal cord stimulation and I need some questions answered about that.  I know I've dithered and then most recently decided to go the pump route, but here are some issues at the forefront of my mind:

-There doesn't seem to be a lot of people working on them.
-Having one means constant Fentanyl and Bupificaine.  And I am not enjoying this drugged up thing.
-A pump requires constant refilling and calibrating, etc.  Injections in the stomach suck pretty much no matter how much you've had them and should be used to them.
-Also, I want to have a baby at some point in the future.  I can't imagine pain pumps are conducive to a healthy fetus.

I have another worry on my mind.  I've had cramping right above my pump.  It's too high for menstrual cramps and the wrong side of appendicitis.  So what's the deal there?  And will there always be some deal with the pump?

Getting out of pain and getting my life back have been my sole focus for... ever, basically.  But there seems to be some hidden costs.  I'm not liking the side effects of medication and I'm not looking forward to this getting worse.

But in the end, this quotation from Macbeth sums up a sort of meta-analysis on my own musings:

"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." (Act V, Scene V).

PS My present poor attitude may also be fueled by falling several more times since the last report of drain ditch falls.

Adjusting

Being on a painkiller schedule is an adjustment.  For one thing, it is a schedule.  The idea is that you get out of such a high level of pain and stay out of it.  In order to do that, you keep up with the regularly scheduled doses.  It may look sort of junkie-esq but the idea is a good one.  I rather like feeling so much better and I'd like that to continue.

I feel really, really good.  I feel my shoulders and upper back relax, as if to say, ahhhhh.  It's like a heavy load has been lifted.  This is not to say that I don't still feel pain; I do.  But it is manageable and livable.  Take yesterday for example: played frisbee with the dogs, washed dishes, hung clothes on the line, did a modicum of yoga, took the dogs for a walk, and watch some tube with the fam.

But the adjustment aspect...

Take yesterday for example.  I got up early with an upset stomach, looked at the clock and knew I needed to take meds, ate a piece of bread or rather force-fed myself a piece of bread, took meds, slept another four hours, woke up, took dogs to drain ditch, made what should have been a delicious lunch, forced most of that down, took meds, attempted writing, failed at attempted writing, slept four hours, and so on.

This morning I woke up a bit after five and now at six thirty I think I'll go back to sleep.  I'm hoping this adjustment doesn't take too long because me with pain under control is me with superwoman-like hopes and plans.  And I want to kick those into high gear.

I need to gush

Today was my appointment with Dr. B.  He was completely wonderful.  He and his Nurse C.  They were kind and humorous.  And Dr. B. listened to me, like really actually listened to me.  I just talked.  I had my check up and then he asked what medications I needed refilled and what medication would work for me for pain.  Having spent countless hours on the question, I determined that I wanted 10/325 mg Norco (generic = hydrocodone with acetaminophen).  I am breaking them in half to get a 5 mg dosage and taking it every six hours, since my body processes medications so very quickly.

My entourage, consisting of my mom and my gram, came with me to the appointment and then afterward took me to Walmart to get my prescriptions filled and to stock up on two products essential for anyone considering long-term narcotic use: Miralax and mineral oil.  A stimulant laxative and a lubricant laxative.  A regimen I know well.  Super fun to take (my first effort at taking a shot of mineral oil resulting in it coming back up in the kitchen sink and my dad getting grossed out), but necessary because constipation with back pain is a special kind of hell.

I took my medication in the car with a banana, got a little high, and decided I needed to make cheese sauce to have over eggs, toast, and tomatoes.  Then I slept for four hours.

I woke up, ate pancakes, took more Norco, watched Jeopardy (but my brain felt slower than usual), played "Just Dance" with my mom, and took the dogs for a walk.  I did fall once and I swore so loudly that you all might have heard it.

But here is the part of the day that stands out to me.  The help I received.  My mom and gram were such good sports about waiting in Walmart for over an hour with me and waiting at the doc's office.  And Dr. B. and Nurse C. were truly amazing.  I am so full of gratitude.

Here's something I learned today.  My Dr. Z. no longer does pain pumps.  Nurse C. called his office to make an appointment for me.  So then she called at least three other places and I'm still waiting to hear back about one of them.  All these people did all these things for me.

My cup runneth over.

3:30AM high anxiety and creativity

So yes, it is 3:30 in the morning.  I awoke an hour and a half ago.  I was in such a deep sleep but now I am in even deeper awake.  I attribute this to a number of factors, two of which I will share.

First, I am in this state of heightened anxiety about my doctor appointment in five and a half hours.  Will I get some relief at last?  What will that look like?  I don't have Part D of Medicare yet, so I can't afford just any drug.  I know what I want, of course I do, but what will happen?  Questions pester my mind and I finally crushed a Klonipin between my teeth in hopes of my mind returning its state of natural calm.

Second, I am on fire writing this project, called The House.  It is my biggest risk-taking venture to date and as such has been unusually hard to write.  But now it seems to pour from my brain through my fingers and onto the screen.  I can't get enough, I can't shut it off, and I don't want to.  Perhaps being a writer means responding to the Muses at 3:30AM.  Perhaps it means a lot of things.  But I am about 22,000 words in and am getting to the introduction of the AI/sociological hive mind concept.  Infinitely exciting.

But I do need to sleep.  I am however reminded of the line from the Alice Walker essay, "Beauty When the Other Dancer is the Self":

"Poem after poem comes--which is perhaps how poets pray."

In my case it is prose.

Drain ditch v Me - I'm 0-3

So here's the situation.

I was taking my dogs for the evening walk along the drain ditch.  I was tremendously pleased to be doing so since I have been in unbearable freaking agony the last few days.  But I felt a bit better today, didn't stay in bed all day, ate regular meals and didn't puke them back up.  The dogs were thrilled to be going on a walk and I was thrilled to be taking them.  Even Spotty came - without an ongoing pep talk and her going home halfway through.

Upon closer inspection, the g.d. hand lines were watering as much of the drain ditch road as they were the sugar beets.  But I could see dry land ahead, all I had to do was make it through maybe 100 yards of soggy.

The first time I fell wasn't too bad.  I didn't even swear.  I just took off my shoes, left them on the bank, and continued down the road... very carefully.

The second time I fell it was more like I was sliding into home plate.  Then I laid there, on my stomach in the mud (iPod safely tucked away inside my bra, whew!) and started thinking.  I had three choices.  I could (a) just stay there in the mud, which was admittedly tempting until Sully started licking my face; (b) pull myself up and crawl home; or (c) pull myself up and keep going.

I was pretty mad by this point.  I was head to toe covered in sludgy clay mud, a very special variety unique to this part of Idaho, I believe.  My linen skirt was soaking and likely staining.  And my glasses were wet because undoubtedly I was continually pelted with cold water from the g.d. hand lines.

So I was going to have my walk.  I walked to the end of the road in my muddy, bare feet, stood there with my hands on my hips feeling victorious, and then picked my way home, grabbing my muddy flip flops on the way.

My dad came out to help me get my dogs tucked in for the night, just wonderful and trying very hard to help someone still too mad to be helped.

I rinsed off in the hose and was surprised when I got in the tub by how much mud was still caked on my legs and arms.  My clothes are in the wash, hopefully coming clean because I really freaking like that skirt.  And now I am reclining in bed thinking, maybe, just maybe being stubborn for the sake of stubborn may not have been the best idea.  I feel like I just took some falls by the drain ditch.  But I have a doctor appointment tomorrow with Dr. B and I am thrilled.

So fine.  I may be 0-3, but this isn't over.  Not by a long shot.

PS I am still in that place with writing where I can't make myself stop, I can't take time to even go to the bathroom until it's kidney failure urgent, and even now with pain radiating through my toes, all I want to do is write.  This is amazing to be in this place with this work.  I am so, so grateful.  And I would fall in the mud ten times a night if it meant I could keep doing this thing that I love so dearly.

This is the song that never ends...

Oh, it goes on and on my friends.  Someone started singing it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...

Today I felt better, at least as far as the headache/migraine issue was concerned.  Still had a headache, but I think it was mostly a rebound headache.  Didn't take Imitrex today.  Didn't get dehydrated.  Good things.

And I actually did a few things.  I took my dogs for a walk in both the morning and evening.  I did my laundry and hung it on the line.  I made a vat of peppermint tea made with fresh peppermint from my mom's plant.  I wrote!  I wrote a lot and was on such a role that I had to go the bathroom and held and held it until I was ready to pee my pants because I couldn't tear myself away.

But the pain right now, in this moment, is excruciating.  I considered the ER, but my rule is as long as I can walk I don't go to the ER.  I've spent way too much time there.  I need relief and soon.  This is making me dizzy and so nauseous.  I've had some stress today and I know that doesn't help.

That's why this feels like the song that never ends.  It seems to go on and on, my friend.  Even as I recognize that it may not actually go on forever, this moment feels like an eternity.

Day 6

This is what my eyes look like today.  My trial for Photoshop is over and now I need to acquire a licensed product, but you get the picture.  The migraine/headache issue continues.  At least I am not puking today.  Knock on wood, there is exactly one hour and seven minutes left in this day.

I turned off comments for awhile.  Don't ask, it was a mood.  Now I've tried to turn them back on but am not sure if I succeeded.  Oh, well.  Obviously not a huge priority for me.

In case I forgot to mention this, I did end up making a doc appt and it is Monday.

I'm having a really hard time.  Lots of emotional breakdowns that include something like "I can't do this anymore" and "how about you give me handful of hypodermic needles and some bottles of halidol".

But tonight I actually took the dogs for a walk instead of relying on my brother to do it.  It was wonderful as usual.  The air smelled good to me, for the first time in a few days.  And for a few minutes there, I didn't feel like poop.  It was nice.

Note to self: remember this moments and let them sustain in the darkest of hours.

Delete

I just deleted my last post.  I am considering deleting this whole blog.  I am considering deleting a lot of things in my life.  But as this is day five of migraine/headache I will encourage myself to wait and make big decisions when my outlook on life is less grim.  Then the delete key.

The path to my hell is paved with your good intentions

That sounds harsh.  I know it.  I'm sorry in advance, but I need to get this off my chest.

Lately I've been talking a lot about my crash and this whole pain deal.  That's different for me.  But it has been coming easier lately.  To talk about this, I mean.  I suppose that is some sort of progress.  Probably because I have some hope for relief for the first time in a very long time.  I think deep down my strong preference toward denial typically prevails.  Right now I wish I'd just shut the hell up.  I feel I've over-shared and it makes me feel like shit.

The more I reconnect with friends I shut out when the pain got really bad, the more they want to know about my life.  I usually hide this part.  I finally told a couple of friends in the last few weeks and I wished I never had.

I can't stand to hear people comment on "what you've been through" and "this ordeal" and etc.  Just writing that statement feels ridiculous to me.  I can't stand the sympathy even when it feels good to hear it.  That may not make sense to you, but it actually makes sense to me.  I wish I could pretend the last four years didn't exist, but I have nothing to fill its place and while I'm good at lying, it doesn't actually feel good.

Here's the bottom line for me: yes, this sucks and it's awful and I pretty much bitch about it all the time.  But I did this.  I did it to myself.

And I frankly can't go much further down this road.  The fall before I started this blog (2008) I was taking so much Dilaudid and the pump was emitting so much Fentanyl that I completely checked out.  My husband begged me to check back in and so eventually I did, but I have to tell you checking out was awesome.  For awhile.  But checking out is only a temporary fix because your brain eventually has to let it out.  And that's what happened.  Those months of grief I'd checked out of came roaring back all at once and it was crushing.

What I'm trying, and mostly failing, to say is that I can't stand you feeling bad for me because I can't stand feeling bad for me.  At least not too much.  The denial and the checking out begins again.  I need to steer clear of that place.

In the next month or two I'll get back into therapy.  Then my only outlet won't be this blog.  But until then know that I am keeping this together by the thinnest of margins.

What I think about at 2AM

It's actually 2:10AM and I'm awake because it feels like a railroad spike is being driven through my left eye.  This headache/migraine situation has now been going on for two days.  I hate it when this happens.  Part of the problem is me telling myself to "man up" and get over it.  Then of course I don't take the medication as my neurologist said I should and I end up with railroad spike ouchies.

I've read some of my journals.  A recurring theme is how hard I am on myself.  Really, really mean actually.  So I am attempting to pledge to be nicer and take it easy on myself in the future.  (Yes, I phrased that very deliberately.)  I hope I can apply this lesson to the onset of migraines and just take the damn Imitrex already.

The last few days I've been writing.  Really writing - not forced, stilted sentences and paragraphs.  I'm talking fingers flying across the keyboard trying to keep up with my thoughts writing.

I'm considering dealing with the chronic jackassery of former doctors by requesting medical records.  It's funny.  Offices are so much more willing to send records to other doctors than to the patient.  Oh, well.  HIPAA is on my side.

Sometimes when I can't sleep at night I listen to my song, "Bird Gerhl" and pictures myself dancing to it on a wide open stage, a kind of contemporary style that incorporates some sort of ballet.  I can't do any of those things, nor could I prior to the crash.  I'm not a dancer; I'm not graceful.  But in a kind of celebration of my newfound wholeness, I dance.

The above picture is my favorite painting, a Degas work entitled "The Star".  The inner me.

These are my random thoughts at 2AM.  Be glad you are asleep.

My life, on paper

Today has been a good day (and not just because I didn't have to take out my AK).  I have officially made a plan.  Yes, another plan.

I've heard a bit of critique of "The Plan" concept.  Long ago my gram began advising me to live for the present, not in the future.  I think something about living in the now might be in the title of one of the books my dad has added to my already lengthy reading list.  A friend has recently questioned my requirements for even having a plan, which I initially considered a ludicrous idea.  But I have come around a little.  A precious little.

Currently, I am in possession of a plan.  It is a four month plan.  It's about as far out as I can go, but I feel good about it.  My plan is to move back to Boise, seek medical care including surgery from Dr. Z. as well as physical therapy.  I will write.  I will heal.  I will recover, or at least begin recovering.

And I've mad myself a pact.  When I am able to wear something other than trainers and flip-flops, I will buy myself a pair of ridiculously expensive Christian Louboutin stilettos.  Self, I officially make this pledge to you.  This will be my recovery present to you.

Oh, I can just see myself walking to brunch at Red Feather, listening to my favorite Boise singer/songwriter, enjoying the bottomless mimosas.

That's the future.  This is the present, which is actually me reflecting on the past:

When I moved from Eugene I knew I left a blue tub of important things behind in the basement storage at the Van Buren house.  I have two of these blue tubs.  Today I opened the blue tub in my storage unit.  It was the tub I hoped it was.  I knew one of them held my diplomas and the other held all my journals since I began journaling August 25, 1992 through the end of 2006 when I began journaling electronically.

It was the journals!  I pulled them all out and they are now stacked in my room in chronological order.  My hope is to read them all and enjoy this little visit with my self of the past.  There are 18 years of journals!  18 years!

Maybe if I understand my self of the past, the self of my future will grow.

This picture is of my stack of journals.  As you can tell, I've always preferred the Mead college ruled 70 page notebook.  :)

Paging Dr. Asshole

Today I have been busy.  I awoke with purpose and only sweaters for clean clothes.  So I washed my laundry and hung it on the clothesline.  I also washed and hung on the line two batches of towels.  I picked up the house a little.  I wrote a to do list and then accomplished items on said list.  Reordered medication from Glaxo-Smith-Kline.  Found a doctor's number that I want to see for my "Welcome to Medicare" physical exam/everything else.

But did I call?

No I did not.

Yes, I did get my Medicare card.  Yes, I do have coverage.  But no, I did not call.

I did cook two meals today (veggie stir-fry and brown rice for lunch, chunky marinara over wheat rotini with asiago for dinner).  I'll soak some beans before I go to bed.  If you are familiar with my daily routine of doing next to nothing and eating things if they can be eaten cold or microwaved in fewer than three minutes, you know this was a big day for me.

I played stupid Facebook games a lot and watched the episodes of the Simpsons on Hulu.  My homestead in "Frontierville" is looking just spiffy.

All day I long I kept thinking, "call the doctor".  Now it is 8:15PM and I can't call the doctor.  It's Thursday tomorrow (I think, I'm never 100 percent on that these days) and if I put it off another two days, I can succeed in not making an appointment all week long.  Congrats to me.

Why?  Why am I doing this?

His name is Dr. Asshole.

Over a year and a half ago, when I still had health insurance, I was going to doctor after doctor trying to get someone who could actually help me.  This was before I saw Dr. Z. who pointed out that my pump hadn't been placed correctly.  So I went to Dr. Asshole and sat in his office for a couple of hours while he presumably screwed around and played Minesweeper for all I know while I sat in a torture chair from hell experiencing endless back spasms.  At last he came into the exam room for the final time and looked through the stack of CT films I'd brought in and announced:

"There's nothing wrong with you."  He proceeded to write down the name and number of a shrink because it was all in my head.

Well.  Moments like those can provoke felonies.  Needless to say, Dr. Asshole also missed that my pump hadn't been placed correctly when he was flipping through my films.

But what he said rocked me to the core.  It was what I fought myself about from the first moments I felt any pain.  I told myself innumerable times that it was in my head and I could mentally conquer it.  Mind over matter.  Pulling up bootstraps and etc.  And that never, ever succeeded in doing anything other than causing me more pain.  And for the record, I did see a shrink, precisely both a psychiatrist and a psychologist.

So now, even though I have this lengthy judge's decision in which the judge went through every applicable CFR (Code of Federal Regulations) and discussed in detail why and how I am disabled, part of me still believes Dr. Asshole.  And now I am  scared about calling this new doctor because what if he doesn't believe me?  What if he treats me like Dr. Asshole treated me?

For years I've been attempting to nurture this very hurt little girl inside me.  And just when I think I've got her talked into the idea that everything will be okay and adult me is trustworthy, I run into a Dr. Asshole situation.  She remembers this and then later takes over and plays Facebook games and does laundry instead of moving forward, because she just can't be crushed one more time.

I wonder if I could wear the judge's decision like a bulletproof vest?  The Truth my Kevlar.  Maybe then I could convince her to let me make that phone call.

Survivorman

My brother and I have been watching the Discovery Channel's "Out of the Wild".  Basically, nine volunteers agreed to be dropped into the middle of the Alaskan wilderness with some equipment and then have to make their way out in a month.  They are doing it solely to see if they can do it.  If they determine they can't make it, they have a little GPS device to "press the button" that will bring a helicopter to rescue them.

We watch this show mostly to make fun of them.  These are regular people, none like "Survivorman" Les Stroud.  They come from various backgrounds and have no particular skills suited for their trial.  My brother laughs because he's done longer hikes, in shorter amounts of time, carrying more on his back than this group.  I laugh because no one seems to have any kind of common sense.  For example, two weeks in they decided it would be better to put their first aid supplies in a ziplock bag rather than carrying them in the massive, metal case they came in.  Two weeks it took them to figure this out.  For a week they carried around a dutch oven, a big one.  We laughed really hard at that.

We came to an episode where the group had hit rock bottom.  Morale had plummeted.  And I remembered a lesson from watching Les Stroud.  Basically, the survival of your psyche is more important than even your body. You can't get int a place of crazy or desperation.  You start making stupid decisions that become harmful.  You have to stay focused, positive, and keep your wits about you - even when it really, really sucks.  And this comes from a man who had to drink condensation off his own urine to stay alive in an African desert.

I know this lesson to be true because my psyche has moved past the point of crazy, past the point of desperation.  And I don't really know what to do about it now.

I am either awake all night, night after night, or I sleep for hours and hours.  I am calm when I take something to be calm.  I am constantly nauseous, puking seemingly randomly.  I've had migraines that take so many pills to get through.  And right now I have having a hard time making myself do anything except lay flat on my back in bed worrying and obsessing.

I have received good news!  But everything has been riding on the idea that (1) I will get healthcare and (2) it will make me better.  What if one doesn't lead to two?  What if it does?  Where the hell am I supposed to go from here?  Everything that I've hypothesized and theorized or even just wanted for the future life where I am recovered may actually become a possibility and that scares the hell out of me.  Who will I be then?  How will I face this vast future?  And what if, after all this, I don't get better?

All I want is to unplug from my own brain or wake up in the future, on the other side of this.  I honestly think I would prefer braving the Alaskan wild or drinking the condensation off my urine to surviving this.  At least if you are starving or freezing, your mind tends to focus on those more immediate concerns. I hope there is a little hyperbole in that.

PS I realize there has been a lot of incessant bitching lately from someone who basically has it made now.  This fact is not wasted on me.

The effrontery of ambiguity

Wow, I've hit the wall.  I ran smack dab into it and I am stuck with my nose planted against the hard brick of the reality that is waiting.  Here are a few facts:

(1) I will start receiving benefits checks on the fourth Thursday of the month, starting with this month
(2) I just got my Medicare card in the mail today and can thus begin to schedule appointments, including a "Welcome to Medicare" comprehensive physical exam
(3) After I get my first check I can then log into the Medicare website and manage some of my benefits online
(4) I need to sign up for a Part D plan (and I think I've found one)

There's not really a lot more waiting to start getting healthcare again.  Like two weeks maybe.  But if feels like even my cells have given up.  I am done.  I am going through the motions of my days in an effort to keep the pain less worse than it can get.  My brain runs on a continual loop of generally freaking out about the new possibilities of my life and the myriad ways everything I've hoped for could go horribly wrong.

It's almost like I don't buy it.

Sure, it looks like I'm going to get healthcare and a monthly financial benefit.  It seems like I'm going to go see doctors.  It appears help is on the horizon.

But how many times have I hoped and how many times have I been disappointed?  It's almost like disappointment is more comfortable than progress.  At least I know what to expect, the pep talks I have to give myself, and the mindset I must adopt to stave off insanity.  The present ambiguity is suffocating.

I've been so excited about this.  But as I sit here amid pillows and ice packs, I know one thing to be true: I've hit the wall, I can endure no more.  I just can't take one more disappointment.  So am I waiting with hope or am I dreading disappointment?  Maybe both.

Fentanyl

You know what I miss?  Fentanyl patches.  That's right.  Those lovely transdermal narcontic delivery patches.  Oh, they tore my skin up and that was disgusting.  But they delivered a continuous dose of medication that is unprecedented and not exactly achievable with pills unless one sets a freaking alarm and goes a little overboard.

But no, some jackasses had to ruin it for everybody and rip the patches open to get all the narcotic at once.  I loathe them as I loathe the shoe bomber and the resulting taking off your shoes at the airport.

But what I really miss is my life.  Last night I dreamt I built a time machine.  Rather than what I did in my dream (don't ask, it was a dream), instead I'd go back 1,556 days ago, run up to the car preparing to leave the bank, and throw myself on the hood, shouting "For the love of god, turn left!!!"

And so I end this rather random post by expressing this thought: "what if?"  And I don't mean what if my life hadn't changed that day in the sense you might think.  But what if my life hadn't changed?  What if hadn't grown and experienced things I never imagined?  What if I never met the people I met and been where I've been?  Eugene potlucks with kegs of Ninkasi, Sweet Life, summer in the country?  What if I'd never lost what I've lost to gain what I've gained?

There are much worse things to miss than Fentanyl patches.

Handfulls of pills

I love pharmaceuticals.  I've mentioned that before.  Here's an example of why:

Today I have had a rotten migraine.  I tried a nap and it didn't get better.  It ended up requiring not one, but two Imitrex and an [undisclosed] quantity of Aleve.  Eventually I felt better enough to take my dogs to the drain ditch so they could jump in and cool off.  Then I wished I could jump in since Imitrex really raises my temperature and  makes me sweat buckets.  So I put my dogs away and then played in the sprinkler.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But here is the love-hate pill issue:

I was doing some Medicare Part D research.  On medicare.gov there is this handy tool to help you pick a prescription program.  You enter all your prescriptions along with the dosage info.  Then it comes back with some program options and estimates of your out of pocket drug expenses.  My estimated out-of-pocket for the year (without coverage) is a little over $20,000 and that doesn't include medications to help with the pain issue (since I don't know those yet).

But I did find a program I liked and it won't be too much per month, about $60.  Also, my highest copay will be about $80, so this is a good thing.

I love drugs.  But this is outrageous.  "Obama-care" didn't do enough.  We need some real reformation.  But that is a potentially long and preachy diatribe.  My handful of pills has made me too loopy to get into that.

Thank goodness.

Sleep, glorious and unfettered sleep

This is an old picture of me, taken in January 2007-ish.  I love this picture because I think it super cute and I especially like my hair.

But why I posted it: I am clearly enthusiastic about the pillow situation and I remember being so enthusiastic because I was going to get some good sleep with those pillows.

Sleep is so important.  Without it your body will eventually start shutting itself down, literally.  The body basically goes through itself like a person turning off the lights in a house.

Since this past weekend of lots of fun (including lifting my niece a lot) I have been in a ridiculous amount of pain.  It woke me up over and over every night.  I saw every sunrise for the past five days.  That is something I prefer not to do.  I would eventually fall asleep somewhere around five and sleep until after eight.  At first I could get in a few hours of napping during the day.  Then that got impossible because of the ridiculous pain situation.

Last night I had a complete mental breakdown.  I took one of my brother's Ambien at around ten.  But I still couldn't sleep and I just lost it.  I cried for a few hours.  Then I had a few friends talk me back into sanity and then around 2:30 I fell into hard, good sleep and slept for six uninterrupted hours.  When I awoke my iPod was no where near my head.

Then today I slept nearly all day.  And I slept hard.  I've noticed that whenever I get to this point with pain I eventually just crash because there is something about dealing with it that is completely exhausting.  Or maybe my conscious decides it's had enough and tags out.  All I know is that I have slept and slept and it is delicious and satisfying.  In fact, my eyelids are heavy now and I am going to sleep when I finish this post.

Sleep is so wonderful.  Viva sleep!

Fast forward retrospective

Another sunrise.  I've actually seen the sun rise everyday since Sunday.  I am less cranky about that today.

I've listened to Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" four times tonight.  What that means is that I've cycled through this particular playlist four times tonight.  I've done some thinking this morning, mostly inspired by the times I've been required to get up early.

Moving hand lines required getting up early.  And not just getting up early, but venturing out into a brisk morning and moving heavy, wet pipe for several hours.  It meant bruises on hips and getting soaked when the water was turned on a pipe disconnected, spraying water everywhere.

That super-sucked.  And not just that, but also doing all farm work in general, rouging grain, weeding spuds, raking hay.  Oh, I really hated all that crap.

Working at the Office of Performance of Evaluations and getting up this early to be there by a quarter to seven and staying at least that late at night.  That also super-sucked.

But in retrospect, would I choose to fast forward through those times?  Nah.

Someday I will look back on this time and think to myself, given the chance to fast forward I would not choose it.  Even though it super-sucks.  I'm not going to think twice about this; it's alright.

Time machine

Sometimes it would be nice to have a time machine, or actually more like a time advancer.  You could watch your life unfold, but on fast forward like you go through commercials on your TiVo.  That way you'd technically not miss anything and you could get to the good parts.  Just like skipping the commercial breaks or "words from our sponsors".

I guess that assumes the stuff you are skipping don't qualify as good parts.  Take my life for instance, since this blog is about me and I'm writing it.  I see some really great things on the horizon, maybe weeks or maybe months.  Since I don't know for sure, I'd fast forward slowly.

So you might say, "but you'd miss learning experiences and lessons" and yada yada yada.  That's fine.  I'm good.

That is not to say I'm not grateful for the things I've learned and the ways I've grown over the last few years.  I really am.  It's just that I'd like more enjoying life and fewer character building experiences.  Right now I don't think bedridden is an accurate description of my life, but the last couple of days it has kind of felt that way.  Thank goodness for instant Netflix.

This morning I got a call from Allsup and learned a few really great things.  In short I am getting my first benefit check this month, it's a decent amount, and my Medicare is retroactive to May 2009.  All I need is the little card sent to me in the mail so I can get to a doctor.  And of course I need to sign up for Medicare Part D for prescription coverage.

So things are happening, there's progress, etc.  But I'd like to fast forward past the waiting, past the initial doc appts, past the pharmacy, past taking pills, and finally get to the point where medication has run through my bloodstream and I feel some relief.  Then I'll evaluate how far to fast forward from there.  How about fast forwarding to "happily ever after"?

Yeah life is a journey.  But right now, in this moment, I am all about the destination.

Another self-indulgent diatribe

It's 2:49 AM and I've been awake for an hour.  Actually, I haven't really slept yet.  Every time I fall asleep, my body jerks me awake from pain.  I can't get remotely comfortable.  I got up to soak in the tub because the hot water (and I do mean hot) feels nice for my tight, sore muscles around my injury.  I woke up my dad and feel like a jerk because he has to work tomorrow and I don't.  I cried the whole time I was soaking.  I really hate admitting that.

Here's the scientific explanation for why I can't sleep.  When stressed the body produces the hormone epinephrine, a neurotransmitter also known as adrenaline.  It increases heart rate, dilates air passages, and contracts blood vessels.  This is known as the "fight or flight" response.  It basically creates those energy surges you feel.  So I try to sleep, and I am very, very tired, and my body engages this response to pain and the surges wake me up.

Knowing my body is doing its job doesn't help.

I know I'm getting health care soon, but I feel like I can't hang on any longer.  If only I knew something like "on October 1, 2010 I will be out of pain".  Then I could say to myself "you've been in pain 1,552 days, you can do 86 more days, what's 86 more days?"

I want to be drugged up, smacked out, zombie-fied.  I want to check out and not care because pharmaceutical grade heroin brings me to state of artificial euphoria.  I don't want to stay present, I want to lose track of the present.  I want relief; I can't do this anymore.

Epiphany

This little girl has changed my life.

Let me back up.

Moving back to Idaho, here to my parents' house was the best decision I made for myself in a long, long time.  I feel so much better.  I feel like there has been this healing process underscoring everything I do here.  I feel more whole.  I feel good.  And this despite the pain.

Today I was taking the dogs for a walk around sunset and I was saying my prayers of gratitude.  When there is so much beauty around you and there is the unbridled joy of some silly dogs jumping in and out of an icky drain ditch, it is hard not to be grateful.  I went through a mental list of thankful for's and then got to my niece.  And I started to cry.

Here's the thing about my niece.  She embodies potentiality.  She is miraculous.  In her you see a person so brave and strong and secure enough to be so fearless and independent.  She is sparkling and exciting.  She has great parents who are raising her well.

Then it occurred to me that in my life it doesn't matter what things I do, but rather who I am doing them for.  Everything I thought I knew about myself seemed to spin as I grasped this new Truth.  (And yes, for any existentialists out there, I do mean "big T" truth.)  Everything I want in life clarified, and like a clear stream, I could see through the depths to what lied below.  And what I saw there was unexpected.

Soon I will know all I need to know about my Social Security and Medicare benefits.  I will make a ton of doctor appointments and I will start to physically recovering.  The great thing is that I have experienced another kind of recovery.  I know what I want.  Soon I'll be able to go get it.

People call us renegades cause we like living crazy

Yesterday was the annual fourth of July barbecue my parents host each year for all the family.  In the morning people golfed and in the afternoon the barbecue began and included soccer, kickball, and "Just Dance".  It was so much fun.  My mom had worked so hard on everything before and it was so great that the weather cooperated!  


The best part for me was spending time with my siblings - all of them.  We were all together and it was wonderful, completely wonderful.  I got to play with my niece the past couple of days and she is so special.  I got to just sit and talk to everyone and catch up and just hang out.  All five of us, spouses and child included.


The last few months have brought to mind just how important they all are to me.  It makes me sad to think of getting caught up in some kind of life that doesn't include them all constantly.  It makes me grateful and happy that we get to keep trying.


So this Kings of Leon song has really caught me lately.  I know I'm late coming to the "Kings of Leon are cool" party, but it's good stuff and I've never been cool.  I think this song also speaks to my rather rabid biological cravings for a baby!  I was warned this would happen and I scoffed.  Ha!  That's what I get.  


PS Life without ice packs is nasty and brutish (to paraphrase Hobbes).  I can't wait until this frostbite crap heals because I am just hanging on here.  I seem to always forget how much worse this can get.  Maybe that's a mixed blessing.  All I know is less itching, more numbing!  Oh, and I also know that if you take 8 aleve and 8 advil, it doesn't help the pain but you sleep like a baby.

Sometimes you are just glad a day is over

As of today, I am legally and officially divorced.  That's right.  Got the paperwork to prove it.  But what was weird about it was there wasn't a judge's signature.  It was a stamp.  A stamp with the judge's name on it.  Just once.  And I had to think it was so strange that all my time and effort and tears went into something so huge for me that boiled down to a rubber stamp.

But I do feel it.  I feel the true, legal separation.  I feel the natural yet unwelcome sound of me saying aloud "my ex-husband".  Oh, I was never going to be divorced.  I was never going to get married.  And then when I was married I was never going to get divorced.  So much for what I thought.

I fell asleep on an icepack and gave myself shallow frostbite again.  My ass freaking itches.

I puked up my breakfast rather violently and then slept for hours. (Note: I am a baby because my SIL and my bestie both do nothing but puke during their pregnancies.)

No food = no fuel = exhaustion.

When I went to the store to pick up ingredients for my salad, not only did it take forever to get there because of the distance, but there was of course the road construction.  So we get there, find the ingredients, and the cashier was a total bitch.  When I got home, I realized she hadn't put my napa cabbage in my freaking bag.  Now we have to go back, although the manager said he'd take care of it for me because my dad called on my behalf.  He's great.

But then my little sister arrived and surprised everyone!  Well, my dad and I knew, but no one else did and there were tears and screams and so much love.  I know I cried and I'm glad my mom didn't actually have a heart attack.  Just being around her makes everything seem brighter in my world.  She is wonderful.  She kind of saved my day so to speak.

Tomorrow is another day and I'm glad for it.  More sister, more siblings!  Less BS.  Fantastic.