Skrillex–that was my vice. I remember when it all changed. It was February 17, 2015 and we had gone to the mall. It was a special occasion–my Valentine’s day gift from the husband (he knew I suffered in the way of bra selection). We packed up the family under the guise of going out to dinner, but really, we were going to get me a new bra. Yep, it was a big deal. So I spent 40 minutes in that place, getting measured and observed by this trained lady who was so kind and non-verbally-judgmental, while Tony entertained the multiple children elsewhere. I walked out a happy camper with a 2 for 1 deal. My life was gonna change! (More than I knew).
We trekked on through the mall, our kids were joyfully causing a disturbance while we blissfully didn’t mind. They sucked away all of our quarters for the worthless, yet fulfilling, toy police car rides and gumball machines. We decided we’d head over to the local buffet, being the Americans that we are. While we are enjoying our sloppy, overloaded plates of fatty goodness, the second-youngest child tells me she is going to throw up. Off we go to the bathroom to see what happens.
She does. She really does. She is a little thing and so dainty and of course, I am squatted beside the loo while she perches on my lap as a makeshift hammock. The poor little thing carries on losing her cookies for a good 15 minutes before we decide she can now handle the 35-minute ride home. We rinse her up and proceed back to the table. Now it’s a shuffle to the van–none of the other children are feeling sympathetic, as they have yet to devour the cotton candy they’ve had their eyes on the whole time. After much ado and lots of convincing and guilt trips, we escape with 4 sticky children and little time to spare.
The ride home is a precarious one. Little girl is fretting the whole way, holding her free-to-keep cup from the restaurant up to her quivering little birdie lips (just in case). About half the way there, I start feeling reallly uncomfortable… my hips or something, I can’t really pinpoint it. It gradually and annoyingly gets more persistent over the ride home. By the time we arrive, little girl is doing ok and seems to have dealt with the bulk of the issue (we decided later, she indulged in the soft, rich pretzels a little too much while I was away trying on the braziers). My attention diverted to my own, unforeseen issue.
Finally, we are situated in the lot atop our townhouse complex. Everyone piles out, even little girl is feeling fine now. I get out as usual but NO–something has gone very wrong. I cannot walk! I mean, I can, but hell no I can not. Of course, I do. I hobble, waddle if you will, along and proclaim that something is going horribly wrong in my body. What the hell? What has happened? There has been no injury that I am aware of, I am baffled. Even on the ride, I was uncomfortable, but I had no idea what was brewing–waiting to steal my life away, and the lives of everyone around me.
Well, it doesn’t get better. Not at ALL. In fact, it gets terribly worse. Being the type of woman and die-hard mother that I am, I persisted. However, eventually there was no hiding it. I was in excrutiating pain with each step of each step. My mother detects the seriousness by phone and is unimpressed with my martyrdom. Regardless of lack of insurance, she insists that I go to the emergency room. *Side note- My mother suffers a disorder regarding a hereditary narrowing of the spinal column and degeneration of discs. I have also been diagnosed with the condition and degeneration of vertebrae. She obviously believes the situation is related to the family plague (I now believe, rightly so) as there is no clear incident to blame.*
The doctor is unsympathetic. You see, she happens to suffer from “legitimate sciatica,” as she put it. As I do not display the typical signs of this, she dismisses me with non-narcotic pain killers, per my request (I cannot afford to be knocked out with so many little wanderers in the house). I go home. The treatment does me a little bit of good (mind you, I was given a shot in the back while I was there and that was a lifesaver. I was able to walk back to my van and go home somewhat comfy). After a few days I start to thank my lucky stars and go about life as before. One of the things I choose to do is assist in constructing two bunk beds. Poor choice. While pulling one into place, I feel a no-no pain. It is mild, but it is there… when I wake up the next day, it is in charge of me. At this time, my mother decides to come to my house and take over. That happens. I go back to the hospital.
This time–I will admit–I embellished the truth a little. I knew I would receive the same treatment and attention as before and I also knew that would not be the cure. I told the doctor I injured myself (which was true!). He knew I was being scandalous in this way, but also probably detected my extreme guilt for bending the truth and went with it. He did an x-ray (which of course, was fine) and then told me that an MRI was almost never an emergent procedure. He said he was doing the x-ray because IF he was able to get me a referral to come back and get an MRI on an outpatient basis, they would want the x-ray first and this way it was done. He also gave me that shot again. Hooray! He was not able to get me an MRI appointment and totally seemed bummed about it. Rules are rules, I get that.
So he convinces me (as did my mother who was offering to be me while I did this) that I needed to take a little break from reality. He tells me that if I want to feel better, I have to be still for like, 3 or 6 days (ARE YOU JOKING?!). I shutter at the idea; having the kids in school and so many things to think about. My mother says to forget it and I better damnwell do what I’m told. So I concede (lest I get grounded). I accept the multiple prescriptions and leave again.
I spent the next about 5 days in a stupor. Damn, I had no idea how exhausted I was until I was forced to rest, btw. I felt better, alas, it would be temporary. It remained.. it remained like a single spore in a decontamination tent, a single louse on a grade school child’s favorite stuffed animal. It remained.
So, here we are now. Six months later and what seemed so emergent at its onset is now a little daily fact of life. I can’t run. I can’t clean my house properly. I take ibuprofen almost every day when I wake up so that I can do stuff (surely destroying my liver or my ovaries or something in the process). I have SERIOUS and sudden pain every single time I rise from sitting or sleeping. I no longer sleep in my bedroom on my bed–I started to wake up every night (aka morning) at 3:30am in terrible pain. I’m talking about can’t-even-roll-myself-out-of-the-bed-without-crying, at times. So, I gave up and started sleeping in the recliner downstairs.
Side note: before this, I had this OTHER pain in my back. I woke up every night and had pain, the same way, but in a different place. That pain is gone! But this pain has taken its place. This bodes well for my mother’s theory that I am simply deteriorating. I happen to think it is all due to a botched epidural. We shall see… for sure.
So now, I deal with chronic, daily, extreme (at times) pain. I can’t do things now. I can’t go on nature walks. I can’t volunteer as a chaperone and go to freaking Monticello with my twins. I can’t go on the hike to the stinkin’ waterfalls with the family. And the worst? They don’t want to go without me. So now, no one goes. No one goes or does anything.
What to do? No pills will do the trick and they are also not welcome in my life because I have too many responsibilities (and let’s not kid, I am likely to love them). I am not in my bed. I am not physical (and not thin anymore also, dammit). I’m sure not trying these fun little drugs on TV that tell me how awesome it will be to get rid of my pain while I struggle with incontinence, cancer, high blood pressure and death. What to do? I just want to hula hoop to Skrillex and go to the stupid museum. Is that too much to ask?
Do you have chronic pain? What is your story?
bonniebellsez 