Fog

It has been a long time since I have written on this blog. I'm not sure if it is because my recovery has been going well or because I have been so wrapped up in learning about my newfound religion or because I have been chasing a 20 month going on 5 year old around the house day after day.

Whatever the reason is, today I felt the need to write. 

Back in February, I had a pretty quick and easy recovery from surgery. The pain was minimal and the botox was a GODSEND. For the first time in what seemed like years, I was virtually pain free. I still had to work up stamina because I was pretty out of shape, but I could enjoy normal things like NORMAL people. I felt NORMAL! I found beauty and excitement in everything. I fell in love with living. I could go to the gym, I could grocery shop, I could enjoy intimacy with my husband, with little to NO PAIN! 

Then June happened. Oh, June. 

I started to see a fog clouding everything; this fog is called pain.

When a person has chronic pain everything in their life is hard to manage. It is as if the pain is an extra limb or a Siamese twin attached that is only in the way, never helpful, only there to make things difficult.

Given my history of  PTSD, depression and anxiety, after experiencing pain free living for months and the joy that comes with it, everything seemed to spiral out of my control. My mood would swing out of control and I would cry because of the dumbest things. I seemed to have 'accidents' more often, for example; I stood up under a floating shelf in my son's bedroom and hit my head so hard that I had to go to the ER twice (once by ambulance) because of dizziness, fainting and abnormal head pain, and was finally diagnosed with a concussion.

My pelvic floor pain is always in the background. It is there because the band of tissue that was cut and stretched so many times is in a wad of knots. You know that kind, when your shoulders hurt really bad because of knots and a massage 'helps' but makes you sore after? These knots are harder to massage. I have a "dilater" that looks like a... what did my dad call it? I can't remember, but he definitely didn't say DILDO. That's what it looks like. Anyway, I use this device to stretch the band of tissue around the opening of the vagina to help loosen the muscles and the knots. 

The problem is, the botox has worn off. 

The knots are so painful and stretching them only results in more intense pain that lasts for days. It feels like I have a big bruise that someone is always pressing on. Walking doesn't help. It is really clouding everything around me.

As a distraction, I have started to make jewelry. Lots and lots of jewelry. I even opened my own little etsy shop and make custom things for people! 

In closing, I would like to give a shout out to the pharmaceutical companies for creating muscle relaxers and anti-depressants because without them, I would probably have to be institutionalized. 

to be continued....

Elastic

Last night I had the pleasure of having my dear friend, Sarah, over for dinner and girl time. We laughed and talked and drank wine. It was wonderful. At one point we talked about how we were both empathetic to music. We can both feel it with our souls. (Speaking of souls, I have determined that I do, in fact have one.) Music has always been a part of my life and I hope that I will pass that passion on to Johnny one day. 

This morning, I was braiding my hair, listening to the top 100 playlist on Spotify, and "Elastic Heart" by Sia came on. For the first time in what seems like months, I felt hope. 

Strange how a song about hearbreak and failed relationships can speak to me so strongly. It was as if this song was written for me, just for this upcoming week. I have (what I hope with every part of my being is my last) surgery on Friday.

I am going to be sure to bring my Bluetooth speaker to the hospital and have John play me this song when I wake up from surgery. 

"Elastic Heart"

Sia

For the first time I feel like a Survivor, not a victim.

Fear

I am afraid.

I am having surgery on Feb 13th. This will be number 8 or 9. I've lost count. Dr. O'Boyle is going to cut out some scar tissue, reattach the tissue and inject some spasm-ed muscles with Botox to help them relax so that I can actually have effective pelvic floor therapy and hopefully less pain daily.

I am being cut again. This time willingly. I trust this Dr. I know she knows what is best. The thought of cutting awakens my hippocampus and memories of pain and hospital machines beeping and IV lines and needles and chemical smells overcome me. 

I am anxious of what could be. Will the incision re-open again? Probably not. My amygdala still fires ""Fight or Flight" through hundreds of synapses. 

When I have an anxiety attack, the volume in the room is deafening. I can't catch my breath and I am flooded with every possible negative outcome of the current situation. I lay paralyzed to the floor. Sometimes I just have to cry and cry and cry until I am out of tears. Other times John is able to calm me down before I spiral out of control of my own mind. It is terrifying to not be able to get a grip of your own thoughts. 

I am terrified of ever being pregnant again. Every night I dream of being pregnant one way or another and in every dream something goes wrong. I visited my midwife from Johnny's pregnancy and she told me "you shouldn't have any more pregnancies". Why would you tell someone that when you haven't treated them post partem? I want to be pregnant again. I want to have a good experience coming home after delivering another baby. I want to nurse and diaper and lift and care for another baby. I want to do all of those things that I was robbed of, but I am so afraid! 

I have been internalizing a lot of my anxiety and my fears and put on a strong front because I am a mother and my job is to take care of my son and his needs. I take medication. It is easier to use the prescriptions than to face these fears and make sense of these anxieties. 

Some of my anxiety isn't even truly relative as my therapist says. 

I am terrified of ISIS busting through my door and killing my husband and my son. I have this fear because my husband has a high rank in the Military and sometimes goes on Classified assignments that he can't even tell me about. The chance of this actually happening is probably 1 in 100,000, but the odds don't keep me from having nightmares or jumping out of my skin when there is a knock on the door.

I am terrified of sending my son to school one day. I am afraid that his school will be one of the targets of a mass shooting. Is this fear truly relative ? It feels like it to me. My sister text-ed me not ten minutes ago that her school was on lock down and she didn't know why. A month ago her school was on lock down because some kid stabbed some people. My mother was principle of a school in Arizona and had to lock down her school when a student threatened to shoot the school up. No one expects their child to be killed at school, and "you can't live your life in fear" but right now I can't even get past letting my son out of my sight. 

I don't remember the last time I prayed until today. In the shower. When the scalding water wasn't helping wash away the fear. I'm not sure who I was praying to. Whoever created us and watches over us. I am finding my way. I asked for strength. 

For those of you who read this and feel worried about me, please don't. This entry is to help me get these thoughts out of my head and onto paper. Digital paper anyway. I would love prayers sent my way for peace of mind. I would like prayers sent to the hands and minds of the surgeons and nurses, and prayers for my husband to continue in his patience and amazing love.