Steven Harper's Blog, page 71
November 22, 2017
The Steamroller
This is how far I've fallen.
When you go in for an operation, you're always instructed to wear "loose, comfortable clothes," which is hospital code for "something you can strip off easily." The last three times I had a stone operation (and it still smacks me upside the head that "last three times" doesn't encompass all my operations), the "loose, comfortable clothes" included a particular pair of drawstring pants. They're soft and comfy; pajamai-ish but suitable for public wear. They're my favorites, in fact, and I wore them to draw comfort from them.
I haven't done laundry since the last operation. Today I did, and while I was folding, I pulled these favorite comfortable drawstring pants out of the basket--
--and had one of the worst panic attacks I've had in two weeks. I shoved the pants into a drawer and slammed it, but the anxiety continued. I finally took a Xanax and made Darwin hold me for a long time.
So I now associate my favorite pair of pants with pain, violation, and trauma. I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them again. Little shit like this piles up until I'm under a steamroller.
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When you go in for an operation, you're always instructed to wear "loose, comfortable clothes," which is hospital code for "something you can strip off easily." The last three times I had a stone operation (and it still smacks me upside the head that "last three times" doesn't encompass all my operations), the "loose, comfortable clothes" included a particular pair of drawstring pants. They're soft and comfy; pajamai-ish but suitable for public wear. They're my favorites, in fact, and I wore them to draw comfort from them.
I haven't done laundry since the last operation. Today I did, and while I was folding, I pulled these favorite comfortable drawstring pants out of the basket--
--and had one of the worst panic attacks I've had in two weeks. I shoved the pants into a drawer and slammed it, but the anxiety continued. I finally took a Xanax and made Darwin hold me for a long time.
So I now associate my favorite pair of pants with pain, violation, and trauma. I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them again. Little shit like this piles up until I'm under a steamroller.
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November 11, 2017
The New Kitten
In lighter news, today arrived . . . the New Kitten!
She's very cute, and very loving, and a big attention hog:
How did this happen, with Darwin's adamant refusal to get another cat, especially after the hell we went through with other cats? Well...
You may remember from previous entries that Darwin loves Scottish fold cats, and he got word that one of the pet agencies had one. When we arrived, we learned that the Scottish fold already had many people applying for it, but Darwin couldn't help looking at the other kitties, and this one charmed him completely. So he put in an application for her. And this time, since they had so many cats, the agency readily agreed to give her over, without the myriad background checks, home visits, and vet references they required before. Huh. Imagine.
We couldn't take her with us that day, though, because she hadn't been spayed yet. By today, that had been taken care of and we could pick her up.
We set things up for her--food and litterbox in the bathroom, separate from Dinah's. Dinah became instantly suspicious. And when we got home, her suspicions were confirmed. The little fuzzball leaped out of the carrier and Dinah drew back, expressing her displeasure. However, she didn't fluff her tail or arch her back. Instead, she retreated to the top of her cat tree and watched and watched and watched. Whenever the kitten got too close, she hissed, which the the kitten utterly ignored. We've been giving Dinah extra treats, which she eats, and extra petting, which she ignores.
I think eventually Dinah and the kitten will get along just fine.
Meanwhile, the kitten is busily exploring the house and getting everyone to pet her.
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She's very cute, and very loving, and a big attention hog:
How did this happen, with Darwin's adamant refusal to get another cat, especially after the hell we went through with other cats? Well...
You may remember from previous entries that Darwin loves Scottish fold cats, and he got word that one of the pet agencies had one. When we arrived, we learned that the Scottish fold already had many people applying for it, but Darwin couldn't help looking at the other kitties, and this one charmed him completely. So he put in an application for her. And this time, since they had so many cats, the agency readily agreed to give her over, without the myriad background checks, home visits, and vet references they required before. Huh. Imagine.
We couldn't take her with us that day, though, because she hadn't been spayed yet. By today, that had been taken care of and we could pick her up.
We set things up for her--food and litterbox in the bathroom, separate from Dinah's. Dinah became instantly suspicious. And when we got home, her suspicions were confirmed. The little fuzzball leaped out of the carrier and Dinah drew back, expressing her displeasure. However, she didn't fluff her tail or arch her back. Instead, she retreated to the top of her cat tree and watched and watched and watched. Whenever the kitten got too close, she hissed, which the the kitten utterly ignored. We've been giving Dinah extra treats, which she eats, and extra petting, which she ignores.
I think eventually Dinah and the kitten will get along just fine.
Meanwhile, the kitten is busily exploring the house and getting everyone to pet her.
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Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln . . .
So now I'm stone free and feeling only occasional small twinges of pain. After four full-blown operations and two office procedures in eight weeks, it's all over.
But really, it's not.
I'm still tired all the time. I still have anxiety attacks. I still feel violated, humiliated, and even ashamed. And I'm angry all the time. My mind had no time to process everything that happened before yet another hit slammed into me. When I think about the anesthesia and the operations and tubes and the pain and my splayed out on an operating table FOUR TIMES, my breath jerks and my heart pounds. And my mind returns to these images often. I'm still badly depressed.
I can write this blog. I can write Facebook posts. But fiction? No. I open up a page and stare at it. Nothing. The hospital stole that from me. Everyone says, "It'll come back soon. Just give yourself time." I don't -want- time. I want my life back.
So it isn't over. I'm still seeing my counselor. I'm taking meds. I cry on Darwin's shoulder a lot and worry that I'm overburdening him with my problems.
I feel like I lost two months of my life, and I'm going to lose even more.
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But really, it's not.
I'm still tired all the time. I still have anxiety attacks. I still feel violated, humiliated, and even ashamed. And I'm angry all the time. My mind had no time to process everything that happened before yet another hit slammed into me. When I think about the anesthesia and the operations and tubes and the pain and my splayed out on an operating table FOUR TIMES, my breath jerks and my heart pounds. And my mind returns to these images often. I'm still badly depressed.
I can write this blog. I can write Facebook posts. But fiction? No. I open up a page and stare at it. Nothing. The hospital stole that from me. Everyone says, "It'll come back soon. Just give yourself time." I don't -want- time. I want my life back.
So it isn't over. I'm still seeing my counselor. I'm taking meds. I cry on Darwin's shoulder a lot and worry that I'm overburdening him with my problems.
I feel like I lost two months of my life, and I'm going to lose even more.
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Pulling the Stent
Originally I'd hoped to be back at work, post-op, on Friday. (My last operation was Wednesday.) But Thursday during the day, it became very clear I wouldn't survive a day teaching. I want to punch all the people who say, "You can return to normal activities the next day." It's complete bullshit. I couldn't walk more than twenty or thirty steps without needing to rest, and I =hurt= all the time. The pain and the anesthesia feed the depression, and to top it off, I'm still feeling I've been assaulted and violated over and over. I get nightmares sometimes. I don't get why they lie like this. It would be easy to say, "You'll feel tired and dragged out for three or four days, so don't make plans." "Normal activities," my ass.
Xanax helps, in a short term. Man, you take one of these before bed and you sleep hard! And I've started taking Zoloft, but that'll take a while to start working.
Anyway, originally the doctor had said this final stent would, like the others, remain inside me for at least a week, news that always made my legs shake and my stomach clench. Ever since September 13, I've only gone a week without a stent. That's nearly two months living with excruciating, debilitating pain, burying my face in a towel or biting my sleeve whenever I went to the bathroom to hold in the screams. Everybody always said, "You're almost done! You'll be free of it any day!" And they were lying, every one of them. When you're in agony, ten seconds feels like a year. I got so tired of hearing the "almost done" lie. Don't tell me I'm "almost done." Tell me what I can do to stop the pain.
To top it off, kidney stone victims are always told, "Drink lots and lots and lots of fluid." So you have to go to the bathroom more and more and more often, and every extra trip to the toilet is time in a torture chamber with red hot irons and spikes in your side.
So it was some nicer news that this last stent could come out Friday. Two days of screaming pain instead of seven or ten. Hey, a blessing!
As I mentioned in a previous entry, this stent had strings attached to it. Two thin nylon strings trailed from my urethra and were looped back over my genitals to be taped down. The shithead (and I suspect it was a woman, since a man wouldn't have made this mistake) who did the taping didn't allow near enough slack, which meant I dealt with yet more pain a couple times on Wednesday night, and Thursday Darwin and I had to find a way to retape the whole thing without actually pulling it out. This hurt quite a lot as well--every tiny tug was a jolt of pain. It didn't help that I ended up talking to an ignorant, insensitive, utterly stupid nurse on the phone about it and she assumed I was in pain was because I was "having relations" and not being a normal male.
However, I got an appointment scheduled for Friday morning. Technically, I could have pulled the stent out myself, but the very thought made me shake and freak so much that I needed someone else to do it for me. Because of this fear, Dr. L-- gave me a scrip for Valium to take beforehand.
Friday, Darwin absolutely had to go to work--he's missed a lot of it because of me--so I drove myself down to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. Up in the urology department, a nurse showed me into an exam room. She took my vitals, and wonder of wonders, my blood pressure was way down. At other visits, my pressure was high enough to qualify me for hypertension, but it was all stress. Between the Valium and the knowledge the worst was done, my blood pressure had normalized itself.
"I'd like a man to do this for me, please," I told the nurse.
"We don't have any male nurses on staff," she said regretfully. "I'm very sorry, but--hey, wait." She left the room.
A few minutes later, a Stunningly Handsome Young Man entered. He could have been an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and he had the biggest blue eyes even the heavens can imagine. For the second time, I thought maybe the universe was giving me something nice in return for all the shit, however small.
He introduced himself as Dr. J-- (a resident, I gathered), and he said he'd take the stent out. He gave me a cursory examination. "This is taped down really well," he observed. Yeah. I should train for the OR.
Carefully, he worked the tape free, then said, "Do you want it fast or slow?"
"Whichever will be the least painful," I said.
He pulled. I felt the stent slide down my insides and out my body, and oh, it hurt! But it only was only for about three seconds, and far, far less painful than injecting ineffective painkillers into my urethra, going up there with a scope, grabbing the stent, and pulling the whole thing out. Why the fuck the string method isn't standard, I don't know.
I did need a moment to recover, though. It was definitely less painful, but absolutely no fun.
I thanked the resident, went home, and crashed for an hour. Then I picked Max up from school and crashed for two hours. I was completely exhausted.
Now, however, I'm "only" on kidney stone watch. Every year, I'm on track to get an x-ray to check for more of them.
And I'm going to fucking sue my original G.P. for putting me on the meds that started all this.
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Xanax helps, in a short term. Man, you take one of these before bed and you sleep hard! And I've started taking Zoloft, but that'll take a while to start working.
Anyway, originally the doctor had said this final stent would, like the others, remain inside me for at least a week, news that always made my legs shake and my stomach clench. Ever since September 13, I've only gone a week without a stent. That's nearly two months living with excruciating, debilitating pain, burying my face in a towel or biting my sleeve whenever I went to the bathroom to hold in the screams. Everybody always said, "You're almost done! You'll be free of it any day!" And they were lying, every one of them. When you're in agony, ten seconds feels like a year. I got so tired of hearing the "almost done" lie. Don't tell me I'm "almost done." Tell me what I can do to stop the pain.
To top it off, kidney stone victims are always told, "Drink lots and lots and lots of fluid." So you have to go to the bathroom more and more and more often, and every extra trip to the toilet is time in a torture chamber with red hot irons and spikes in your side.
So it was some nicer news that this last stent could come out Friday. Two days of screaming pain instead of seven or ten. Hey, a blessing!
As I mentioned in a previous entry, this stent had strings attached to it. Two thin nylon strings trailed from my urethra and were looped back over my genitals to be taped down. The shithead (and I suspect it was a woman, since a man wouldn't have made this mistake) who did the taping didn't allow near enough slack, which meant I dealt with yet more pain a couple times on Wednesday night, and Thursday Darwin and I had to find a way to retape the whole thing without actually pulling it out. This hurt quite a lot as well--every tiny tug was a jolt of pain. It didn't help that I ended up talking to an ignorant, insensitive, utterly stupid nurse on the phone about it and she assumed I was in pain was because I was "having relations" and not being a normal male.
However, I got an appointment scheduled for Friday morning. Technically, I could have pulled the stent out myself, but the very thought made me shake and freak so much that I needed someone else to do it for me. Because of this fear, Dr. L-- gave me a scrip for Valium to take beforehand.
Friday, Darwin absolutely had to go to work--he's missed a lot of it because of me--so I drove myself down to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. Up in the urology department, a nurse showed me into an exam room. She took my vitals, and wonder of wonders, my blood pressure was way down. At other visits, my pressure was high enough to qualify me for hypertension, but it was all stress. Between the Valium and the knowledge the worst was done, my blood pressure had normalized itself.
"I'd like a man to do this for me, please," I told the nurse.
"We don't have any male nurses on staff," she said regretfully. "I'm very sorry, but--hey, wait." She left the room.
A few minutes later, a Stunningly Handsome Young Man entered. He could have been an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and he had the biggest blue eyes even the heavens can imagine. For the second time, I thought maybe the universe was giving me something nice in return for all the shit, however small.
He introduced himself as Dr. J-- (a resident, I gathered), and he said he'd take the stent out. He gave me a cursory examination. "This is taped down really well," he observed. Yeah. I should train for the OR.
Carefully, he worked the tape free, then said, "Do you want it fast or slow?"
"Whichever will be the least painful," I said.
He pulled. I felt the stent slide down my insides and out my body, and oh, it hurt! But it only was only for about three seconds, and far, far less painful than injecting ineffective painkillers into my urethra, going up there with a scope, grabbing the stent, and pulling the whole thing out. Why the fuck the string method isn't standard, I don't know.
I did need a moment to recover, though. It was definitely less painful, but absolutely no fun.
I thanked the resident, went home, and crashed for an hour. Then I picked Max up from school and crashed for two hours. I was completely exhausted.
Now, however, I'm "only" on kidney stone watch. Every year, I'm on track to get an x-ray to check for more of them.
And I'm going to fucking sue my original G.P. for putting me on the meds that started all this.
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Missing Purple
Darwin and I had tickets to see THE COLOR PURPLE musical in Detroit tonight, but I'm still recovering from all the operations, and I was just too exhausted to contemplate it. Fortunately, I was able to resell the tickets! It's for less than we paid for them, but hey--we got a big chunk back.
I'm upset about missing the show, especially the reason why. These medical procedures continue to steal chunks of my life.
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I'm upset about missing the show, especially the reason why. These medical procedures continue to steal chunks of my life.
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November 9, 2017
Tongue-Sucking and Me
An old habit is haunting me.
When I was a child, I didn't suck my thumb--I sucked my tongue. This was partly because I didn't want to stick my thumb into my mouth (yuck!) and partly because I have a long tongue (yeah, yeah, I'm wasted on a man, move along). To keep it in my mouth when I was little, I folded it half, so the tip of my tongue faced the back of my mouth. Once you've done this, the natural progression is to suck on it.
This bugged my mother. There was no way for her to break me of the habit. You can pull a child's thumb out of his mouth. You can take pacifiers away. But you can't take a kid's tongue away. Not without incurring some serious prison time, at any rate.
It took me a long, long time to outgrow this habit. I was probably in my teens before I finally gave it up.
Now it's back. And in a weird way.
The kidney stones have me on Norco a lot to relieve pain. They also make me a little high. And they make me suck my tongue. It's strange, but true. About twenty minutes after I pop a Norco, I find myself sucking my tongue. I don't even notice until I've been doing it for a while. Sometimes I notice only because my jaw has become tense from all the motion.
I don't understand the mechanism here. Maybe the Norco produces a neurological side effect. Or maybe Norco re-creates in my head how it felt to suck my tongue when I was little, which makes me subconsciously go back to it. Or maybe it's unrelated and the trauma of the last two and a half months makes me look to an earlier time for comfort.
Whatever it is, it's weird.
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When I was a child, I didn't suck my thumb--I sucked my tongue. This was partly because I didn't want to stick my thumb into my mouth (yuck!) and partly because I have a long tongue (yeah, yeah, I'm wasted on a man, move along). To keep it in my mouth when I was little, I folded it half, so the tip of my tongue faced the back of my mouth. Once you've done this, the natural progression is to suck on it.
This bugged my mother. There was no way for her to break me of the habit. You can pull a child's thumb out of his mouth. You can take pacifiers away. But you can't take a kid's tongue away. Not without incurring some serious prison time, at any rate.
It took me a long, long time to outgrow this habit. I was probably in my teens before I finally gave it up.
Now it's back. And in a weird way.
The kidney stones have me on Norco a lot to relieve pain. They also make me a little high. And they make me suck my tongue. It's strange, but true. About twenty minutes after I pop a Norco, I find myself sucking my tongue. I don't even notice until I've been doing it for a while. Sometimes I notice only because my jaw has become tense from all the motion.
I don't understand the mechanism here. Maybe the Norco produces a neurological side effect. Or maybe Norco re-creates in my head how it felt to suck my tongue when I was little, which makes me subconsciously go back to it. Or maybe it's unrelated and the trauma of the last two and a half months makes me look to an earlier time for comfort.
Whatever it is, it's weird.
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The Final Stoning of Steven
Wednesday morning I got up, took a Valium, and climbed into the car so Darwin could drive me to the hospital for my fourth operation in eight weeks. Fourth time I'd be knocked out, fourth time I'd wake up to pain.
Pain, kidney stones, and the constant violation of my body have been going on for so long, they've become part of my identity. I don't know how to think without considering all these things. Crippling anxiety might strike at any moment. Every time I go to the bathroom, I ready myself for pain. I can't walk more than a dozen-odd yards without getting winded. And there's always another operation looming, when strangers will render me unconscious, splay me on a table, and do whatever they want to me, sniggering all the while at my exposed parts.
Despite the Valium (which the surgeon kindly prescribed for me as a one-shot), I was a hot mess by the time Darwin and I arrived in Detroit. The Valium did keep me a little more level-headed than last time, though. We trooped up the elevator to the fourth floor check-in lounge, went through the same process as before, and sat around, trying to chat me through my shakiness. As before, the nurse finally called my name and a pang went through my stomach. Darwin wasn't allowed to go with me at first.
Last time I had a separate room for pre-op. This time I had a bay in a larger ward with just curtains for what passed for privacy. The nurse gave me my gown and instructions to undress. I put the gown on with the ties facing forward--it's easier to tie them, and it ensures my ass isn't hanging out when I'm done. I got into the bed just as the nurse returned. She looked scandalized.
"Your gown is on backward!" she cried.
"No," I said, giving my standard answer. "Mine is on forward. Everyone =else= has theirs on backward."
She wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A second came in and made the same shocked statement. The first nurse repeated what I'd said, and the second one seemed to be more amused.
"But the pocket for the heart monitor is on the front," she said. "There's no place to put it with the gown on that way."
"I won't need a heart monitor," I shot back.
"You never know," she replied.
I folded my arms and ended the discussion.
The rapid-fire questions began, all of them the same as last time. "What's your name? Birth date? What operation are you having? Do you have any allergies?" I interrupted partway through and asked for Darwin to come back. As before, the nurse was recalcitrant about it, but I insisted. He was finally ushered in, and I felt a lot calmer. There was a kerfluffle for a moment--my chart said my right side was being operated on to clear the last stones out.
"That was last week," I said. "The only thing they're supposed to do on the right today is take the stent out. He's actually operating on my left."
This took some time to straighten out. If something is in the computer, apparently it's written in stone. But finally they changed it. The nurse finished the Q&A, assured us the doctor would be in soon, and left.
Meanwhile, in the bay next to us, another patient entered who wasn't nervous at all. We couldn't see him through the curtain, and I don't know what he was coming in for, but the first thing we heard after the nurse told him to undress was, "My prosthetic leg won't fit in this bag! Should I leave it on?"
"No, honey," the nurse said. "It needs to come off."
"Then I need a wet paper towel or something to wrap my stump in," he said. "Can ya get me one, darlin'? Otherwise it'll ooze all over the sheets here."
We also overheard his Q&A:
NURSE: Do you drink alcohol?
PATIENT: Only on days ending in Y. But it's just beer, and that don't count.
NURSE: Cigarettes?
PATIENT: That stuff'll kill you!
NURSE: When did you last have your marijuana?
PATIENT: I lit a big one up yesterday afternoon, I think.
This went on. I wanted to write it all down to use later. Darwin and I were covering our mouths to hold in the laughing. It was a lighter moment in a difficult day.
Eventually, the anesthetist showed up. It wasn't the same guy as last week, but he was friendly enough. One thing I liked about him was that he said he was planning to use just a mask and a small breathing/gas tube that would sit at the back of my tongue, and not a full-blown respirator. I was happy about that.
By now I've become experienced at anesthesia (knowledge I never wanted), and I told him that I needed pain and anti-nausea meds =before= I woke up so I wouldn't be so miserable, and he agreed to handle that.
"He also cries as the anesthesia wears off," Darwin said. "I think it's a side-effect."
He nodded sagely. "There are things we can do to keep that from happening," he said, and I was glad about that, too.
I was terribly thirsty, but knew the hospital wouldn't give me anything to drink. I hooked Darwin into a scheme. "There's a sink over there," I pointed. "Can you sneak me a glass of water?"
Reluctantly, he sidled up to the sink, but there were no cups. This was probably to thwart people exactly like me. But I wasn't done.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I announced.
And a hospital employee was engaged to hold my IV and show me the way, and since my gown was on the right way, I didn't need to clutch the back closed. So there. In the bathroom, I drank deeply from the faucet. So there, too!
Back at my bed, it was more waiting, and more waiting, and finally Dr. L-- showed up. He answered more of my questions. Yes, there'd be yet another stent left behind, but they'd use the smallest they had. No, he hadn't used a laser last time--just a basket to get the stones out. Yes, he'd prescribe extra pain meds for the upcoming stent, since he knew I had so many problems.
Whenever he mentioned a stent, I had to put my hands over my face to shut out the fear. "Taking the stent out is almost as bad as the operation," I said, shaking again.
"I could put it on a string," he said. "It's inconvenient, but it makes taking the stent out a lot easier. I could give you another Valium and have you come in to the office for it."
"I hate that scope," I said. "Hate, hate, hate it."
So he said he'd use a string.
And then they gave me a dose of Versed, which made me a little dizzy, but I was determined to hang on to memory. The rest of the surgical team showed up, and I knew all of them except one guy, who was standing in the background. He was young and very handsome.
"Are you ready?" said Dr. L--.
"Who is that?" I asked, pointing.
The man introduced himself as a resident who'd be assisting. Later, Darwin told me he was trying not to laugh because, due to the Versed, my "who is that?" came out as a cat-call. When that happened, the anesthetist, who was also gay, caught Darwin's eye behind my back and winked, which only made things worse for Darwin. I don't remember it going that way, but that's what Darwin says happened.
They wheeled my bed down to the operating room, leaving Darwin behind. I hate losing my memory, and made a determined effort to remember what I saw: shelves of medical equipment, metal carts, cupboards, people in scrubs, a set of sinks with huge faucets. In the OR, one more person remarked on my gown being on backwards, and I gave my standard answer.
They moved me to the table, and there were the stirrups again. Dr. L-- promised to put extra padding on them this time so my legs wouldn't be cramped when I woke up. The anesthetist put a mask on me--
--and I was back in another room, surrounded by curtains. Everything was heavy and dark. I managed to crack an eye open and saw a female nurse typing at a portable computer station. I shut my eyes again, unhappy. For these procedures, I don't want women handling me, and I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just have to get through this."
A few moments later, a male nurse in scrubs came in. "I'll take over," he said, and the woman left. Oh, I was happy. I don't know if my chart said something about my past history so they gave me a male, or if it was coincidence, but I was glad nonetheless.
I hurt, but not nearly as much as before, and I wasn't nauseated. The anesthetist had done his job well.
Still, I was climbing out of heavy darkness, with every limb weighed down and my head swimming. The nurse shook my foot and called my name loudly. "Are you awake?" he boomed.
My eyes were open, but I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded a little.
"My name is Craig," he said. "It looks like everything went well. You'll have to void your bladder, and then you can go home."
"Did they put in a stent?" I croaked.
"They did."
Here my heart sank. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping Dr. L-- would have changed his mind about that.
"Where's Darwin?" I asked. "I need Darwin."
"Who's Darwin?" Craig asked.
Shouldn't this be on my chart? I wondered. "He's my husband. I want to see him."
"First we should--"
"I want my husband!"
Craig shrugged, took out a phone, and asked for Darwin's number. I lay back and dozed off again, but a few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw him walking through the ward toward me with a big smile, and I felt so wonderful seeing his cheerful face. He kissed me.
"You look a lot better than last time," he said. "I'm so glad."
I was taking stock now. My legs didn't hurt. My lower body hurt only a little. I could feel the painkillers sliding through me, dulling the pain.
My gown was on the wrong way. Yes, some anal-retentive nurse or orderly had stripped my gown off, turned it around, and fed my arms through it. Whoever the asshole was hadn't even bothered to tie it shut, either. It felt petty and bullying. "Yeah, he won't put the gown on the way =we= want, so we'll just knock him out. See if he can stop us then!" Fuckwads. I hate hospitals and their pissy personnel.
I checked under the sheet.
WARNING: GRAPHIC STUFF TO FOLLOW!
( Read more... )
When it was over, I leaned back on the bed, panting. Craig the Nurse ran a scan and announced my bladder has half empty. "You can go home soon," he said.
I gave him a "what the fuck do you know?" look. I couldn't even sit up and piss, let alone go home. At least I wasn't crying this time! I don't know what the anesthetist did, but that was a relief. Bawling in the ward on Darwin's shirt was no great fun last time, and it was nice not to weather it this time.
An Asian man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wong. I recognized his name from the paperwork on my last operation, but I'd never seen him before.
"I don't remember you," I said drunkenly.
He sighed. "No one ever does. It's the curse of my position."
He went over post-op stuff with Darwin, because I kept falling asleep. He reiterated what Darwin had said--that the first stent was gone, there were no stones in my left side, the calcified tissue is harmless (though it may generate more stones and I should get a yearly x-ray to check), and there were a lot of drugs for me to take. I lay there, feeling stupid and helpless and weak.
Then came some better news: because no stones had come out, the stent could be removed in a couple days instead of staying in a week. (!)
After Dr. Wong left, Craig the Nurse stepped away as well. I turned to Darwin. "I need to use the urinal again. Maybe I should stand up."
Darwin helped me to my feet. I leaned heavily on him and tried the urinal. This time it worked more easily, but it was still so painful I couldn't help howling. The strings hanging out felt strange as well. They gave--still give--me the sensation that I'm dribbling all the time.
I got back into bed and rested some more. Darwin chatted with Craig, who returned. I just tried to gather strength. This operation hadn't been nearly as bad for me as the previous one, though it had lasted just as long--two hours. I'm sure the fact that they hadn't made multiple trips down my urinary canal dragging stones in a basket made a major difference. Darwin repeated that I looked a lot better than last time.
Darwin had also, at my request, recorded his meeting with Dr. L-- after the surgery. (I asked him to do this because, much as I adore Darwin, he's awful at remembering medical details and makes vague statements like, "The doctor said it was fine.") Listening to the recording helped keep me calm because I felt more informed.
Finally, it was time to go home. Same routine as before: Darwin ran ahead to get the car while some lady pushed me through the hallways in a wheelchair. Out front, Darwin helped me into the car and we drove home.
At home, I was resting in bed. Darwin brought me a snack--
--and suddenly I burst into tears. I cried and cried and cried while Darwin held me. I couldn't get myself back under control, and I said all the things I'd said last time, that I felt stupid, that I couldn't stop, that I felt weak. This time, though, there was an element of release. This was my last operation, and the doctor had confirmed it was over, and everything I'd been holding in came pouring out.
"It's a delayed reaction," Darwin said, stroking my head. "Just get through it, you'll be fine."
And I kept crying. So the anesthetist was only able to delay the inevitable.
Going to the bathroom is still a horrible chore. The stent--now on my left again--rips up my insides no matter what, and the strings hanging out of me make things touchier. And once the hospital painkillers wore off, I was hurting again. More pills!
That night, I woke up with an entirely new problem.
GRAPHIC STUFF BEHIND THE CUT
( Read more... )
Darwin, to his chagrin, was enlisted to help me pull the tape off. It was a three-hand job to do it without yanking the stent out. We succeeded, but I didn't like the much longer strings hanging free. They kept catching on the inside of my clothes and tugging painfully. Finally, Darwin drove me to the drug store and we found the same kind of surgical tape the hospital had used. We bought a packet, and back home Darwin had the fun job of helping me retape the strings, this time with an appropriate amount of slack. (Don't ask how we figured this out!)
Meanwhile, I made an appointment at the urologist's for Friday to get the stent removed. I could technically do it myself--all you have to do is pull the string--but the thought makes me shake, so I'm going in to have someone else do it while I'm on Valium. On Friday, everything will be over at last.
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Pain, kidney stones, and the constant violation of my body have been going on for so long, they've become part of my identity. I don't know how to think without considering all these things. Crippling anxiety might strike at any moment. Every time I go to the bathroom, I ready myself for pain. I can't walk more than a dozen-odd yards without getting winded. And there's always another operation looming, when strangers will render me unconscious, splay me on a table, and do whatever they want to me, sniggering all the while at my exposed parts.
Despite the Valium (which the surgeon kindly prescribed for me as a one-shot), I was a hot mess by the time Darwin and I arrived in Detroit. The Valium did keep me a little more level-headed than last time, though. We trooped up the elevator to the fourth floor check-in lounge, went through the same process as before, and sat around, trying to chat me through my shakiness. As before, the nurse finally called my name and a pang went through my stomach. Darwin wasn't allowed to go with me at first.
Last time I had a separate room for pre-op. This time I had a bay in a larger ward with just curtains for what passed for privacy. The nurse gave me my gown and instructions to undress. I put the gown on with the ties facing forward--it's easier to tie them, and it ensures my ass isn't hanging out when I'm done. I got into the bed just as the nurse returned. She looked scandalized.
"Your gown is on backward!" she cried.
"No," I said, giving my standard answer. "Mine is on forward. Everyone =else= has theirs on backward."
She wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A second came in and made the same shocked statement. The first nurse repeated what I'd said, and the second one seemed to be more amused.
"But the pocket for the heart monitor is on the front," she said. "There's no place to put it with the gown on that way."
"I won't need a heart monitor," I shot back.
"You never know," she replied.
I folded my arms and ended the discussion.
The rapid-fire questions began, all of them the same as last time. "What's your name? Birth date? What operation are you having? Do you have any allergies?" I interrupted partway through and asked for Darwin to come back. As before, the nurse was recalcitrant about it, but I insisted. He was finally ushered in, and I felt a lot calmer. There was a kerfluffle for a moment--my chart said my right side was being operated on to clear the last stones out.
"That was last week," I said. "The only thing they're supposed to do on the right today is take the stent out. He's actually operating on my left."
This took some time to straighten out. If something is in the computer, apparently it's written in stone. But finally they changed it. The nurse finished the Q&A, assured us the doctor would be in soon, and left.
Meanwhile, in the bay next to us, another patient entered who wasn't nervous at all. We couldn't see him through the curtain, and I don't know what he was coming in for, but the first thing we heard after the nurse told him to undress was, "My prosthetic leg won't fit in this bag! Should I leave it on?"
"No, honey," the nurse said. "It needs to come off."
"Then I need a wet paper towel or something to wrap my stump in," he said. "Can ya get me one, darlin'? Otherwise it'll ooze all over the sheets here."
We also overheard his Q&A:
NURSE: Do you drink alcohol?
PATIENT: Only on days ending in Y. But it's just beer, and that don't count.
NURSE: Cigarettes?
PATIENT: That stuff'll kill you!
NURSE: When did you last have your marijuana?
PATIENT: I lit a big one up yesterday afternoon, I think.
This went on. I wanted to write it all down to use later. Darwin and I were covering our mouths to hold in the laughing. It was a lighter moment in a difficult day.
Eventually, the anesthetist showed up. It wasn't the same guy as last week, but he was friendly enough. One thing I liked about him was that he said he was planning to use just a mask and a small breathing/gas tube that would sit at the back of my tongue, and not a full-blown respirator. I was happy about that.
By now I've become experienced at anesthesia (knowledge I never wanted), and I told him that I needed pain and anti-nausea meds =before= I woke up so I wouldn't be so miserable, and he agreed to handle that.
"He also cries as the anesthesia wears off," Darwin said. "I think it's a side-effect."
He nodded sagely. "There are things we can do to keep that from happening," he said, and I was glad about that, too.
I was terribly thirsty, but knew the hospital wouldn't give me anything to drink. I hooked Darwin into a scheme. "There's a sink over there," I pointed. "Can you sneak me a glass of water?"
Reluctantly, he sidled up to the sink, but there were no cups. This was probably to thwart people exactly like me. But I wasn't done.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I announced.
And a hospital employee was engaged to hold my IV and show me the way, and since my gown was on the right way, I didn't need to clutch the back closed. So there. In the bathroom, I drank deeply from the faucet. So there, too!
Back at my bed, it was more waiting, and more waiting, and finally Dr. L-- showed up. He answered more of my questions. Yes, there'd be yet another stent left behind, but they'd use the smallest they had. No, he hadn't used a laser last time--just a basket to get the stones out. Yes, he'd prescribe extra pain meds for the upcoming stent, since he knew I had so many problems.
Whenever he mentioned a stent, I had to put my hands over my face to shut out the fear. "Taking the stent out is almost as bad as the operation," I said, shaking again.
"I could put it on a string," he said. "It's inconvenient, but it makes taking the stent out a lot easier. I could give you another Valium and have you come in to the office for it."
"I hate that scope," I said. "Hate, hate, hate it."
So he said he'd use a string.
And then they gave me a dose of Versed, which made me a little dizzy, but I was determined to hang on to memory. The rest of the surgical team showed up, and I knew all of them except one guy, who was standing in the background. He was young and very handsome.
"Are you ready?" said Dr. L--.
"Who is that?" I asked, pointing.
The man introduced himself as a resident who'd be assisting. Later, Darwin told me he was trying not to laugh because, due to the Versed, my "who is that?" came out as a cat-call. When that happened, the anesthetist, who was also gay, caught Darwin's eye behind my back and winked, which only made things worse for Darwin. I don't remember it going that way, but that's what Darwin says happened.
They wheeled my bed down to the operating room, leaving Darwin behind. I hate losing my memory, and made a determined effort to remember what I saw: shelves of medical equipment, metal carts, cupboards, people in scrubs, a set of sinks with huge faucets. In the OR, one more person remarked on my gown being on backwards, and I gave my standard answer.
They moved me to the table, and there were the stirrups again. Dr. L-- promised to put extra padding on them this time so my legs wouldn't be cramped when I woke up. The anesthetist put a mask on me--
--and I was back in another room, surrounded by curtains. Everything was heavy and dark. I managed to crack an eye open and saw a female nurse typing at a portable computer station. I shut my eyes again, unhappy. For these procedures, I don't want women handling me, and I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just have to get through this."
A few moments later, a male nurse in scrubs came in. "I'll take over," he said, and the woman left. Oh, I was happy. I don't know if my chart said something about my past history so they gave me a male, or if it was coincidence, but I was glad nonetheless.
I hurt, but not nearly as much as before, and I wasn't nauseated. The anesthetist had done his job well.
Still, I was climbing out of heavy darkness, with every limb weighed down and my head swimming. The nurse shook my foot and called my name loudly. "Are you awake?" he boomed.
My eyes were open, but I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded a little.
"My name is Craig," he said. "It looks like everything went well. You'll have to void your bladder, and then you can go home."
"Did they put in a stent?" I croaked.
"They did."
Here my heart sank. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping Dr. L-- would have changed his mind about that.
"Where's Darwin?" I asked. "I need Darwin."
"Who's Darwin?" Craig asked.
Shouldn't this be on my chart? I wondered. "He's my husband. I want to see him."
"First we should--"
"I want my husband!"
Craig shrugged, took out a phone, and asked for Darwin's number. I lay back and dozed off again, but a few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw him walking through the ward toward me with a big smile, and I felt so wonderful seeing his cheerful face. He kissed me.
"You look a lot better than last time," he said. "I'm so glad."
I was taking stock now. My legs didn't hurt. My lower body hurt only a little. I could feel the painkillers sliding through me, dulling the pain.
My gown was on the wrong way. Yes, some anal-retentive nurse or orderly had stripped my gown off, turned it around, and fed my arms through it. Whoever the asshole was hadn't even bothered to tie it shut, either. It felt petty and bullying. "Yeah, he won't put the gown on the way =we= want, so we'll just knock him out. See if he can stop us then!" Fuckwads. I hate hospitals and their pissy personnel.
I checked under the sheet.
WARNING: GRAPHIC STUFF TO FOLLOW!
( Read more... )
When it was over, I leaned back on the bed, panting. Craig the Nurse ran a scan and announced my bladder has half empty. "You can go home soon," he said.
I gave him a "what the fuck do you know?" look. I couldn't even sit up and piss, let alone go home. At least I wasn't crying this time! I don't know what the anesthetist did, but that was a relief. Bawling in the ward on Darwin's shirt was no great fun last time, and it was nice not to weather it this time.
An Asian man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wong. I recognized his name from the paperwork on my last operation, but I'd never seen him before.
"I don't remember you," I said drunkenly.
He sighed. "No one ever does. It's the curse of my position."
He went over post-op stuff with Darwin, because I kept falling asleep. He reiterated what Darwin had said--that the first stent was gone, there were no stones in my left side, the calcified tissue is harmless (though it may generate more stones and I should get a yearly x-ray to check), and there were a lot of drugs for me to take. I lay there, feeling stupid and helpless and weak.
Then came some better news: because no stones had come out, the stent could be removed in a couple days instead of staying in a week. (!)
After Dr. Wong left, Craig the Nurse stepped away as well. I turned to Darwin. "I need to use the urinal again. Maybe I should stand up."
Darwin helped me to my feet. I leaned heavily on him and tried the urinal. This time it worked more easily, but it was still so painful I couldn't help howling. The strings hanging out felt strange as well. They gave--still give--me the sensation that I'm dribbling all the time.
I got back into bed and rested some more. Darwin chatted with Craig, who returned. I just tried to gather strength. This operation hadn't been nearly as bad for me as the previous one, though it had lasted just as long--two hours. I'm sure the fact that they hadn't made multiple trips down my urinary canal dragging stones in a basket made a major difference. Darwin repeated that I looked a lot better than last time.
Darwin had also, at my request, recorded his meeting with Dr. L-- after the surgery. (I asked him to do this because, much as I adore Darwin, he's awful at remembering medical details and makes vague statements like, "The doctor said it was fine.") Listening to the recording helped keep me calm because I felt more informed.
Finally, it was time to go home. Same routine as before: Darwin ran ahead to get the car while some lady pushed me through the hallways in a wheelchair. Out front, Darwin helped me into the car and we drove home.
At home, I was resting in bed. Darwin brought me a snack--
--and suddenly I burst into tears. I cried and cried and cried while Darwin held me. I couldn't get myself back under control, and I said all the things I'd said last time, that I felt stupid, that I couldn't stop, that I felt weak. This time, though, there was an element of release. This was my last operation, and the doctor had confirmed it was over, and everything I'd been holding in came pouring out.
"It's a delayed reaction," Darwin said, stroking my head. "Just get through it, you'll be fine."
And I kept crying. So the anesthetist was only able to delay the inevitable.
Going to the bathroom is still a horrible chore. The stent--now on my left again--rips up my insides no matter what, and the strings hanging out of me make things touchier. And once the hospital painkillers wore off, I was hurting again. More pills!
That night, I woke up with an entirely new problem.
GRAPHIC STUFF BEHIND THE CUT
( Read more... )
Darwin, to his chagrin, was enlisted to help me pull the tape off. It was a three-hand job to do it without yanking the stent out. We succeeded, but I didn't like the much longer strings hanging free. They kept catching on the inside of my clothes and tugging painfully. Finally, Darwin drove me to the drug store and we found the same kind of surgical tape the hospital had used. We bought a packet, and back home Darwin had the fun job of helping me retape the strings, this time with an appropriate amount of slack. (Don't ask how we figured this out!)
Meanwhile, I made an appointment at the urologist's for Friday to get the stent removed. I could technically do it myself--all you have to do is pull the string--but the thought makes me shake, so I'm going in to have someone else do it while I'm on Valium. On Friday, everything will be over at last.
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November 6, 2017
The Overly Handsome Psychiatrist and Me
I've done a fair amount of reading about post-operative depression, and I'm apparently following the checklist of symptoms like a chef with a new recipe. I'm working to cope and bring this under control, but depression (as many of you know) attacks the very parts of you that are good at fighting off depression. Meanwhile, my depression and anxiety are getting worse and worse. I have anxiety attacks five or six times a day. I can't concentrate. I have a hard time making even small decisions like which route to take to the store. I'm scared all the time. And by all the time, I mean that every minute I'm awake my stomach is clenched in a knot and my hands shake at the slightest provocation.
My counselor Lenny suggested that I see a psychiatrist (or other medical mental health person) for some pharmacological aid. Like a lot of people with depression, I put it off. I don't need more meds. I take enough of them already. How much more medical exams do I need to endure? Meds won't help anyway--by the time anti-depressants kick in, I'll have worked past this, won't I? And so on.
But yesterday was a Very Bad Day. Anxiety attacks like machine gun fire. Actual terror at one point that left me panting and sweating in my office chair. And pain, pain, pain from the stent. I ended the evening huddled and sobbing in Darwin's arms on our bed. (He deserves a golden laurel wreath for putting up with all this.) During this latter event, Darwin said something that struck me hard. He said he noticed the day after my first operation that I had become a different person. My behavior, my attitude, my everything was radically different starting that very first awful day back in September.
This morning, I called the psychiatrist's office.
"When do you want to come in?" asked the receptionist.
"Late afternoons are best," I said. "When do you have an opening?"
"How about today at 3:30?" she said.
I was about to refuse. I had a lot to do at work (I was calling during my prep period). I have this operation coming up in two days. I had--
"Yes," I said quickly.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Rather than teach on my feet like I normally do, I sat in a chair in front of the room, which requires me to pull out a number of teaching tricks to keep the class engaged. (Most of my students ain't honors kids, and they tend not to pay attention to someone who isn't literally standing over them.) Even though I'm seated, it takes a lot of energy, which I don't have right now, and by sixth hour I was wiped, with another hour to go. As it happened, however, I hadn't realized that this class didn't finish the video they'd started when my substitute was there last week. So I put that up, giving me a chance to recover. That was a relief! By the hour's end, I had a little more energy.
And I drove down to see the psychiatrist.
Well, actually I saw the psychiatric version of a Physician's Assistant. Good enough. My case isn't =that= complicated. And when T-- walked into the examination room, I felt the universe was maybe, just a little, giving me something back. T-- was strikingly handsome. (Am I allowed to privately objectify my medical support people? Yes, dammit. Give me this.) Tall, =very= well built, dark hair and eyes, nice voice, and boy, he knew how to dress. Tailored clothes show off a great many assets. So while he was going over my medical and mental health history, I was quietly admiring the view. It took 45 minutes to go through everything, so I got a very =nice= view.
T-- recommended an anti-depressant for 30 days, with a return visit to see if I was improving and if I needed to continue. He also gave me short-term anti-anxiety meds to take as-needed, though I'm hoping I don't need them much--Xanax can make you loopy.
I made a return appointment for three weeks later, privately thinking this was =one= aspect of all this that I could get some pleasure out of, anyway.
Now we'll see if yet more meds have a positive impact.
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My counselor Lenny suggested that I see a psychiatrist (or other medical mental health person) for some pharmacological aid. Like a lot of people with depression, I put it off. I don't need more meds. I take enough of them already. How much more medical exams do I need to endure? Meds won't help anyway--by the time anti-depressants kick in, I'll have worked past this, won't I? And so on.
But yesterday was a Very Bad Day. Anxiety attacks like machine gun fire. Actual terror at one point that left me panting and sweating in my office chair. And pain, pain, pain from the stent. I ended the evening huddled and sobbing in Darwin's arms on our bed. (He deserves a golden laurel wreath for putting up with all this.) During this latter event, Darwin said something that struck me hard. He said he noticed the day after my first operation that I had become a different person. My behavior, my attitude, my everything was radically different starting that very first awful day back in September.
This morning, I called the psychiatrist's office.
"When do you want to come in?" asked the receptionist.
"Late afternoons are best," I said. "When do you have an opening?"
"How about today at 3:30?" she said.
I was about to refuse. I had a lot to do at work (I was calling during my prep period). I have this operation coming up in two days. I had--
"Yes," I said quickly.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Rather than teach on my feet like I normally do, I sat in a chair in front of the room, which requires me to pull out a number of teaching tricks to keep the class engaged. (Most of my students ain't honors kids, and they tend not to pay attention to someone who isn't literally standing over them.) Even though I'm seated, it takes a lot of energy, which I don't have right now, and by sixth hour I was wiped, with another hour to go. As it happened, however, I hadn't realized that this class didn't finish the video they'd started when my substitute was there last week. So I put that up, giving me a chance to recover. That was a relief! By the hour's end, I had a little more energy.
And I drove down to see the psychiatrist.
Well, actually I saw the psychiatric version of a Physician's Assistant. Good enough. My case isn't =that= complicated. And when T-- walked into the examination room, I felt the universe was maybe, just a little, giving me something back. T-- was strikingly handsome. (Am I allowed to privately objectify my medical support people? Yes, dammit. Give me this.) Tall, =very= well built, dark hair and eyes, nice voice, and boy, he knew how to dress. Tailored clothes show off a great many assets. So while he was going over my medical and mental health history, I was quietly admiring the view. It took 45 minutes to go through everything, so I got a very =nice= view.
T-- recommended an anti-depressant for 30 days, with a return visit to see if I was improving and if I needed to continue. He also gave me short-term anti-anxiety meds to take as-needed, though I'm hoping I don't need them much--Xanax can make you loopy.
I made a return appointment for three weeks later, privately thinking this was =one= aspect of all this that I could get some pleasure out of, anyway.
Now we'll see if yet more meds have a positive impact.
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November 5, 2017
Thor
Darwin and I went to see THOR: RAGNAROK (read: I dragged Darwin to see it). It was a fun movie. Fast, funny special-effects-laden popcorn fare. I've loved Cate Blanchett since THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, and she killed it as Hela. Chris Hemsworth shirtless is always worth the price of admission. And bare Hulk butt!
Anything that gets me to stop thinking for a while these days is a plus in my book.
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Anything that gets me to stop thinking for a while these days is a plus in my book.
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November 4, 2017
Depression, Post-Op Style
I seem to be suffering from post-operative depression. This hits a lot of people who go under for even one operation, and I've had three in the last month and a half, with a fourth one on the way.
No one knows for sure what causes post-op depression. Many doctors think it's the stress of the entire process, the pain, the fear, and a side-effect of anesthesia. All four of these have been prominent in my life lately. Some symptoms of post-op depression are:
excessive sleeping or sleeping more often than normalirritabilityloss of interest in activitiesfatigueanxiety, stress, or hopelessnessloss of appetiteI'm showing all of these. Darwin and I had a minor argument earlier today, for example, and rather than go further in the discussion, I found myself shutting down. I stared at the table in front of me for several minutes and couldn't even work up the energy to speak. This isn't the way I usually argue, and my sudden motionless silence alarmed Darwin more than a little. I had no energy, no will, nothing. All I could do was stare. Eventually Darwin took my hand, which helped break through. If I'd been alone, who knows how long I would've sat there.
I lose my temper quickly, and over stuff that wouldn't normally bother me. (Irritability.) I can't write fiction and can't quite bring myself to play my harp. (Loss of interest.) I'm TIRED all the time. (Fatigue.) I'm eating less. (Loss of appetite, though in this case, it's helpful.) And I'm always tense and scared, waiting for the torture, pain, and assault to start up again, as it will do on Wednesday, and it feels like I'll never get my life back. There's no way to recover what I've already lost, either, which upsets me even more. (Anxiety, stress, hopelessness.)
It's gloriously unfair that I have to deal with the worst case of kidney stones in modern history. On top of it, crushing depression keeps slamming me down. It feels like nothing will ever be normal or bearable again. It doesn't help that all this was supposed to end two operations ago, and it hasn't--it's only gotten worse and worse and worse, with more operations piled on more procedures piled on more operations.
My counselor has recommended that I talk to a psychiatrist about medications. Darwin doesn't like the idea--I already take handfuls of pills every day--but I'm so strung out and in so much physical and emotional pain that I'm looking for anything that'll make it better.
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No one knows for sure what causes post-op depression. Many doctors think it's the stress of the entire process, the pain, the fear, and a side-effect of anesthesia. All four of these have been prominent in my life lately. Some symptoms of post-op depression are:
excessive sleeping or sleeping more often than normalirritabilityloss of interest in activitiesfatigueanxiety, stress, or hopelessnessloss of appetiteI'm showing all of these. Darwin and I had a minor argument earlier today, for example, and rather than go further in the discussion, I found myself shutting down. I stared at the table in front of me for several minutes and couldn't even work up the energy to speak. This isn't the way I usually argue, and my sudden motionless silence alarmed Darwin more than a little. I had no energy, no will, nothing. All I could do was stare. Eventually Darwin took my hand, which helped break through. If I'd been alone, who knows how long I would've sat there.
I lose my temper quickly, and over stuff that wouldn't normally bother me. (Irritability.) I can't write fiction and can't quite bring myself to play my harp. (Loss of interest.) I'm TIRED all the time. (Fatigue.) I'm eating less. (Loss of appetite, though in this case, it's helpful.) And I'm always tense and scared, waiting for the torture, pain, and assault to start up again, as it will do on Wednesday, and it feels like I'll never get my life back. There's no way to recover what I've already lost, either, which upsets me even more. (Anxiety, stress, hopelessness.)
It's gloriously unfair that I have to deal with the worst case of kidney stones in modern history. On top of it, crushing depression keeps slamming me down. It feels like nothing will ever be normal or bearable again. It doesn't help that all this was supposed to end two operations ago, and it hasn't--it's only gotten worse and worse and worse, with more operations piled on more procedures piled on more operations.
My counselor has recommended that I talk to a psychiatrist about medications. Darwin doesn't like the idea--I already take handfuls of pills every day--but I'm so strung out and in so much physical and emotional pain that I'm looking for anything that'll make it better.
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