I really don't know where to start with this one. The perfect time to begin a blog is with fresh, unprocessed trauma, right?! So here we go..
One thing I have not mentioned recently is that among all of my intestinal trauma my interstitial cystitis was flaring back up. Every 2-3 months I repeat a surgical procedure called a hydrodistention on my bladder to help abate this pain, but in the meantime I had not shared with anyone outside of my immediate family and closest of closest friends (and even few of them) what was going on here. You start to feel like a drag after a while and do not want to put your problems on other people - I am working on this in therapy. I keep a lot quiet and internalize the struggle for fear of exhausting others.
Last Wednesday, prior to reporting to the hospital for my surgery, I realized how deep my trauma had reached. I started having a panic attack even thinking about being put under for a procedure I had had before because I simply could not fathom being in a hospital setting again. For someone like me who has a lifetime commitment to be one of the hospital's premiere residents, this is not healthy. My dad, the savior that he is, drove up five hours to be there with me while I had the surgery and take care of me after.
I thought that dealing with the post-op pain from this surgery would be all I'd have to deal with, but let's not forget the abdominal pain I had been experiencing since my last blockage and also not talking about. I was constantly waking up in the middle of the night, unable to move, unable to eat or function, trying to balance all of this in between operational flares. Let's forget being able to "mom" or be anything of worth at this point.
Saturday night I woke up at midnight and could not fully sit up straight. I had gone to bed (on the bedroom floor, my comfort zone) early that day texting my parents "it feels like a blockage" but hoping that this was not true. I know when something is wrong, and something was wrong. I crawled up to the bed and woke up my husband and told him the words I hate uttering more than anything: "we need to go to the hospital." Ben knows when I say this I mean it - there is something not right. He helped pack up my hospital bag (thank goodness my stepsons were home) and we jetted off to the ER at 2AM.
Luckily, since I my last experience there, I've talked with hospital reps and they have somewhat of a "flag" on my account which allows them to listen to me more and has words drawn up of my typical remedy. I was especially thankful for this as we were quickly whisked back and my husband helped put into words what was going on with me (I should also note that my guts were coming out - did I forget that part?) so that the proper remedy could be delivered.
My husband has a job where he has to travel and not always be with me. I'm not going to say this is easy to deal with, because it isn't. This is where my parents really step in, with my dad having the most flexibility in his job, but my mom is always there every single time she can be. After my husband left once I was settled to take care of our toddler and get ready to go out of town, I felt comfortable enough alone to be able to speak with the doctors, as my surgeon (the human equivalent to Jesus) would be on the way to meet with me, and there is no one I have more faith in than this individual.
I was able to detail to him the exact spot in which I was receiving the most pain, as this one portion always flares up. He immediately thought we needed to operate to repair what was going on here, and thank God for that. I can't begin to describe what it's like going into surgery. It doesn't matter how many times you've had it, when you're having a major operation, you start to lose your mind. I don't care how many drugs they give you, you're scared shitless. I can remember every detail of being in pre-op and the nurse trying to calm me down and talk me through what's going on. I'm tearing up writing about it - PTSD and trauma in the chronically ill is a very real thing. The nurse took my engagement ring for safekeeping, said a few encouraging words and the always "you're too young for all this," and sent me on my way. Lights out.
The first thing I remember after waking up was my doctor showing me a picture of my intestines in a total knot and saying "you were completely right, look at this Lindsay," and me losing my absolute mind. Drugged up, barely coherent, I just kept saying "I wasn't crazy, I wasn't crazy," while he repeated "no, you weren't crazy. You were right, look what was wrong with you." You often get dismissed when you have an invisible illness, because it's something you can't describe - but seeing in photo form the turmoil that was going on inside of me that I was trying to cover up was so validating. No wonder I was in so much pain and nothing was passing through me - my remaining intestine was in a complete knot!
Dr. Carr came and saw me a day later and I was feeling horrible from the post-op pain but grateful that the original pain was gone. I can't tell you how many times I have thanked this man for believing me and fixing me when no one else would (let's not forget he saved my kid's life and operated twice while I was pregnant). He is completely humble, empathetic and kind, saying "you've always led me right to the problem, it's not an issue at all." I tell him I would buy him a boat if I could afford it and mean it.
This will be another trauma I have to file away and hope that nothing else comes about in the meantime. January/February/March 2021 will be added to another chapter of Feb/Marches (I detest these months) in which I've had to fight my body. Bless my therapist - she's got a lot of work to sort out this week.
Thank you to the friends who have remained my confidants and stood by when I can't barely stand myself. It takes a lot to hold someone like me up, I just hope that I'm worth it when I'm good :)
Until then, I will be trying to remember that I'm not worthless just because my body is built different. With a heating pad and not moving, of course.
Love to all.
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