Harnessing the healing power of snark
My husband: “So, how are you feeling?’
Me: “Well, I have cramps, fibro pain, AND a migraine. I really want to go find Life and punch it in the nut sack.”
My husband: “Hey, wait a minute. You’re assuming that Life is a guy.”
Me: “OK then, I want to go find Life and stab it in the face.”
My husband: “There ya go.”
So it’s been three weeks since my surgery, and I was really hoping that my funny writing mojo would’ve returned by now. But I guess most, if not all, of my creative energy is being used to heal my body, which, ok, I guess I can live with that.
But I also want to get past this “not-writing” energy habit, because I could easily see three weeks of not writing turning into three months or more. So today I am going to write something (with no guarantees about its quality) so I can start to break through this invisible force field of resistance.
So I guess I will tell the tale of my little adventure in surgery, because otherwise this post would just consist of me yelling things like, “Dammit, Tigger! Stop peeing in my office!” And you know, there’s only so much narrative juice you can squeeze out of something like that.
So that lovely week started off as so many of my weeks do, with multiple doctors’ appointments, neither of which were close to me, and neither of which were close to each other.
At one appointment I got to have some more blood drawn due to my elevated liver function. That was really scary for me, because the doctor didn’t really explain what that was or why that was happening, and then he murmured something about possibly needing an MRI of my liver, and so that was when I pulled a hefty dose of Denial out of my toolkit and did everything in my power to pretend that that experience was not actually happening.
Then at my second appointment I got to check in with my sleep doctor and order more supplies for my CPAP machine, including my “mask of choice”, AKA “The Pig Snout”. I was also all set to practice some personal sovereignty, defined as Being The Queen (or King) of Your Own Internal Space, which I’ve been learning about lately from Havi Brooks and Hiro Boga. Because I absolutely LOATHE having to be weighed and having to talk about my weight every single damn time I have to go and see a doctor, because DUDE-I’ve already got enough stuff to deal with without having to add Feeling Bad Because Of My Weight to the mix.
So this time I just told the nurse what number to write down, and then while I was waiting for the doctor I decided what I would say to him if he dared to bring up “The-W-word”. Namely this: “I’m sorry, but we’re not currently accepting feedback on anything related to weight at this time. We are only accepting feedback related to CPAP and sleep issues.”
So I was all set with my fun answer, but as it turned out he never even mentioned “The W-Word at all.” Apparently my inner sovereignty was so powerful that it flowed out to meet him before he even came into the examination room. So, YAY me!
And then I made it through the rest of the week until about midnight on Saturday, at which time commenced The Battle Between My Body And The Agents of The Hostile Takeover.
A few hours earlier I started having the most God-awful pain in my right side. This had happened to me before, and it was really scary because nothing I did seemed to help it at all. And while it was here I was absolutely incapable of finding any relief. No pain medicine even touched it, and no position, no matter how much I contorted myself, brought me any relief.
Now you all know I have fibromyalgia (a chronic pain disorder), among MANY OTHER health issues, so you know I know from pain. But I’ve got to tell you that this was absolutely The Worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life. But I was prepared to white-knuckle my way through it-AGAIN-until I started throwing up, which had never happened during any of my previous attacks. So that, combined with the fact that I was unable to manage the pain AT ALL, convinced me to ask my husband to take me to the emergency room, where our adventure will pick up next time.
So you’ve probably noticed that it’s been kind of quiet around here lately. Even though I’ve been moving through so many different situations at what seems like the speed of light, for the first time in my 35 years, I seem to be out of words to describe what’s currently going on in my life.
I haven’t really known how to BE in this place, because always before, even if everything else fell apart, I could always fall back on a cushion of words to soften the blow. So I turned to one of my tried and true coping strategies, namely; “When in doubt, freak out.”
Because I am nothing if not generous, not to mention an excellent Drama Queen, I decided to share the freaky love with my coach during one of our sessions.
“GOD,” I announced, in my best, quivering, innocent-victim-of-the-universe voice, “God has taken all my words away! The one thing I most loved to do in the world, and now He’s taken it away from me for no reason!”
In what can only be described as a Superhuman Exercise Of Will which most likely led to severe internal hemorrhaging on her part, not only did my coach NOT laugh at me, but somehow she was also able to ask me helpful, non-mocking coachful questions to help me work through this issue.
“Well,” she asked, “does everything you write on your blog have to be funny?”
“Uh, DUH! YES!!” I replied. (Aren’t I just a dream client? Don’t you want to coach me too?) Fortunately she has raised two children, so she never takes snottiness personally.
“OK,” she replied, recognizing an Intractable Brick Wall Of Stubbornness when she saw one, “think about this. You had a plan for your blog when you started it three years ago. But you’re not the same person you were three years ago. Think about everything that has happened over the past year. So what if you could allow your blog and your writing to change, and reflect who and where you are now?”
She makes a good point. Especially given the fact that, if I had to give it a title, the theme of this past year would be,
I have hurt, in some way, every single day, for the past eight months.
Eight months of sickness, trauma, my life being completely out of my control, and pain.
One day last October I lost my health. Not because of anything I did or didn’t do. Not for any logical, rational reason. Just ‘cuz.
Overnight, I lost the ability to be the person I had been, and do everything I’d been doing up to that point.
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.
I never knew pain could hurt like this.
And even though I seem to have reached a place where the original illness is gone and the side effects are more or less managed, who’s to say they won’t show up again one day, out of the blue, for absolutely no reason at all? My body, my mind, my emotions, they are all tied up in knots and braced against more pain. Because I remember the pain. And I don’t know if I could bear to go through it again.
This was, and continues to be, a huge trauma for me. And I really don’t know how to be with it.
But I am still here. I do show up every day, even if all I do is open my eyes in the morning and acknowledge that I’ve arrived at the beginning of another day.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
OK, Madeleine L’Engle was one thing.
I mean, she was almost 90, so her passing was not entirely unexpected, even if it does mean that we’ll never know what happened to Charles Wallace Murray, or whether or not Vickie Austin and Adam Eddington ever end up together.
So while I’m not happy about it, I can live with it, because at least all those characters were left in a good place.
But now Robert Jordan?
Have I offended you or something?
I mean, is there a reason that you’re slowly killing off all of my favorite authors, one by one?
Seriously, WTF?!
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter
Sincerely,
a devoted reader who does not care to have any more of her ongoing series abruptly cut off with all of the loose ends left hanging
