Leg Cramposaurus

This is a continuing saga from the Golden birthday post of yesterday.

The night of the party, I assumed I would sleep well after cooking 27 million street tacos, three large pans of creamy chicken enchiladas and cutting 75 pieces of chocolate cake. But no. Realization hit… more like burned… that this agony may be more than a muscle cramp in my thigh. There was no possible sleeping position that didn’t produce pain. For three nights I sat in my green birthday chair in my room praying to fall into unconsciousness.

One of those three nights, I had forgotten my earplugs and once again I assumed I would be able to sleep without them because that was a less pain-filled decision then walking across the room to get the earplugs. Wrong again. I love earplugs. The end.

Still, on Monday, DAY #4, I assumed the pain would eventually go away. Nada. On Tuesday morning, firmly poised in my green birthday chair after a fitful night of cat naps, I phoned the doctor’s office for an immediate appointment.

My son delivered me to the physician’s office at 9:00 a.m. As you may have anticipated, I was not looking my best with possibly 15 hours of sleep in four days. In my experience, the worse you look going to the doctor, the better your chances are of getting action and results. The nurse practitioner acted like this was so ordinary… a thigh cramp… no big deal… “It’s your sciatic nerve. We will give you pain meds and also steroids to reduce the swelling.” Again, I assumed I would be down and out for a few more day.

Two minimal hours later, I was singing the praises of modern medicine and was relatively pain free for the first time in five days. I love meds. The end.

The end of my expressions of love. Not the end of the story.

Two days later, at the family Thanksgiving dinner table, someone suggested that we go around the table and spew forth our thankfulness. I started. I yelled, “I am thankful for drugs!” And it was true from the depths of my being. My soul sang of unquenchable passion for pain medication. My new love.

I assumed I was home free in the pain area. Then the inevitable struck… the other result of taking pain medication…. my belly and bowels full of three days of food not wanting to leave me without a painful, tear-filled fight. I cursed the meds I had previously been in love with just shy of two days ago. I cursed modern medicine. How come they can’t invent non-constipating pain pills??? What’s so hard about that? No pun intended. I cursed the non-plush toilet paper. I cursed the cold, hard toilet seat.

My son-in-law is in med school currently and was visiting for Thanksgiving, so quite naturally I inquired why pain medicine also causes bowel issues. My youngest son chimed in, “Are you asking for a friend?” Mr. Med School explained the corresponding effects and I replied, “I’ll let her know.”

Like the clouds parting after a storm, glee hit my soul when I remembered stool softeners. (I apologize if you are eating, or were eating while reading.) (I probably should have put a gross-out, middle-aged warning on this post.) (Sorry!) To my sheer delight I found a jar of expired stool softeners in the medicine cabinet. Glory be! I believe I heard angels singing as I tossed back three of those little red and white glistening darlings.

You guessed it. The next morning I was singing the praises of modern medicine again. Call me fickle, or delusional, or temperamental, or easily swayed, but this is my story and I’m sticking to it. True love. Pain free true love.

I assume I am not the only one on Earth to have gone through these conflicting emotions with modern medicine. My sincerest hope is that this post will allow a pain-free existence to someone else on the planet currently cursing modern medicine, and rough toilet paper and chilly toilet seats.

 

Mr. Golden Sun!

Recently I finished reading a memoir from a young mother’s life whose “cute-little-yellow-house-with-a-white-picket-fence” plan didn’t turn out as she had dreamed it would. Through many rough patches it turned out even better because of the woman she is now after having gone through heartache. It got me thinking…. I am a cup-half-full person, even if there are only a few drips left in the cup. I usually write about happiness and marshmallows and rainbows and adoption and vacations and chocolate and artwork and all the lovely things that make me smile….. BECAUSE I’m a cup-half-full person. (And gardening and thrift shopping and playhouses and chicken coop construction!) After reading Bloom, I realized that hurting people relate to hurting people. A bond is created when you realize that someone else has been here (horrible!) and gone through this (difficult x 10!) and survived (amazing!)…. and still smiles and laughs.

I have not come out on the “still smiles and laughs” side of the little fender bender that was 11 months ago today.  And I feel like a whiner when I see others who have gone through horrific rehabilitation, or illness, or the loss of someone they love, and circumstances so much worse than my aching arm. But an achy arm has altered my life and I am not through the fire yet. For a while, mid-October, it was seemingly better. But now, mid-February, I’m back to 24/7 pain. A royal pain in the arm! This is why my blogging has slowed to a snail’s pace… slower than molasses in January. Constant pain wears on your brain. It is exhausting. I refuse to touch the pain meds again, as the horrific “coming clean” five-day-episode is burned in my mind as something I never want to experience EVAH again. So I do a little less than I used to. I’m in the slow lane. And I’m more emotional than per-usual.

Last night I came THIS CLOSE to not having enough energy to get myself ready to go to church. Then I sucked it up and brushed my teeth and hair… and went in the same jeans and pink t-shirt that I had been wearing for two days. I was holding up so well until a friend asked how I was feeling… and the dam broke and I was a pitiful teary-eyed mess. “Tonight, it’s bad,” I replied through quivering lips. Normally, I’m not like this… whimpering and soggy… and it’s hard to accept the “momentary me.” But sometimes life stinks… and there is pain… and you cry when you don’t want to.

Like the author of the book I mentioned, I hope to come through this with a fiery zeal that will spurn others on through tough times. I want to be the one bringing meals, and running errands for friends, and dropping by to help with housework. I feel like my sunshine is missing, well, because it is. I need to sing a few rounds of Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me!

So hang in there if you are holding on by a thread. Life ebbs and flows… comes and goes… and the clouds do have a silver lining. God is still on the throne and still loves me and you! He is a constant through this mess and that knowledge does my heart good!

Come on and sing with me, Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me! Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, hiding behind that tree. This whiny mother is asking you, to please come out so I can play with you. Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on, please shine down on, please shine down on me!