Back Into Existential Quandries

Once I finally make it to the nurse's station of our Inpatient Unit, I am traipsing about like a gorilla with scoliosis.  Already planning my escape following the completion of my chaplain-esque duties, I mercifully spy a vacant wheel chair just outside of the refreshment room.  Pride-be-damned, I would make it back to my car one way or another.  But first, I must pour my energy into the "humor-guard"; that which tries to make light of the ridiculous posture I now embody.  Much like the humpback whale, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.  My spine simply refuses to cooperate in a socially-acceptable manner.  At this moment, I serve as the reminder to all homosapiens just how far evolution has brought us. 

Almost. 

My stride is part waddle, part stomp.  The rolling black bag pulled along behind me is the caboose to my own personal train-wreck.  My gluteus maximus closely on the verge of cramping in the effort to keep my feet moving in a forward fashion... taking those small, elementary steps towards my final destination. 

The warm faces of my colleagues greet me and immediately notice my authentic toddle.  Congenial sympathies and greetings are exchanged.  I make attempts at humor, though it's that awkward sort of humor in which no one knows for sure whether it is okay to laugh or not.  But they do... to appease me.

My backside finally lands in a chair behind the safe confines of the nursing area.  I make every effort to hide the beginnings of sweat on my upper lip.  Normally, the jaunt from parking deck to the 5th Floor takes approximately 5 minutes to complete.  Alas, I find relief from the now twenty minute shuffle thanks to the chair cushioning the bum. 

Mondays, in their own right, generally receive a bad reputation for being less than okay after 48 glorious hours of work-week-freedom.  Add a Thanksgiving holiday and a back injury into the mix and you have yourself a delicious cornucopia of shite and the desire to take drugs - lots of drugs.  This sort of behavior is typically frowned upon by my employer so I refrain and, instead, quietly covet the "comfort kits" designed for patients within our care whose side dishes include the likes of dilauded, morphine and ativan. 

God bless the person who invented office chairs with wheels.  This made ambulation much more efficient and status quo.  I was able to retrieve patient charts without fuss; move to and from my laptop with ease; and appear relatively normal.  I smiled and greeted family members walking the halls, charted on phone calls that were made and noted who had needs that I could help meet.



I do this sometimes.

I take several deep breaths before taking off from the launch pad of the office chair, anticipating the anti-climatic descend.  As suspected, I groan quietly (I think I was quiet!) at half-mast and utilize my theatric finesse for that "everything is fine" look when it really isn't.  I plan out who needs what and attack as efficiently as possible. 

Yet the truth always comes out, and I instantly regress into the waddling gorilla who first arrived.  I attempt as much grace as any gorilla can muster, and meander my way to various patient rooms to offer support.  Carrying oneself like a primate, however, is a bit of a distraction so I visit only those who are either sleeping or without family.

Nobody puts Rachel in a corner;
or this guy.

Slowly, I make my return to the landing pad of said office chair and once again dab at the sweat on my lip, making every attempt necessary to unfurrow my brow.  I feel defeated.  I am in pain.  And I submit to the awareness that the best place for me at this time, is home.  The support of my coworkers, urging me to take care, validate my pre-meditated retreat via wheelchair.  Joe, the angel social worker that he is, whisked me into the elevator to the first floor, and escorted his downtrodden colleague into the wild concrete jungle where my chariot waited.  In an effort to cheer me, he shares of his own personal story and offers a gesture of kindness as we depart.  I am touched, and grateful for his compassion.

The irony is not lost on me.  My last name though Luck it may be, it was ultimately the April Fool's incident that started this whole mess.  I suppose I had been without severe discomfort for long enough that I forgot there was an injury to start with.  The injection lasted me 5 months.  And I am again faced with the reality of being human, that things (I) break, that things (accidents) happen and that I do not, in fact, always have it together (whatever the hell together means).  But it's much more comfortable to have the ability for such a façade.  And I am left with a new sense of vulnerability when my body betrays it, the façade I mean.  Lies.  LIES. 

So then, what makes more sense than to write a blog about it?  It's equal parts impersonal via the use of a computer and personal by way of my extemporaneous rambling.  For those of you out there who suffer from chronic pain, I commend you.  You fight a quiet battle that no one sees. 

This back issue (specifically sciatica and skeletal issues relating to the car accident on April 1 of this year), offends me on every level, starting with my fierce sense of independence right down the 8-year-old little girl's emotional aptitude trapped within a 36 year old woman's body.  I oscillate from anger to sadness, resentment to pity, gratitude to anger.  Wait, I said anger already. 

I am learning that I have this terrible habit of being stubborn and not asking for help, even when others freely offer it.  I do not know what it is that keeps me from acquiescing to someone's generous offer to run an errand, pick up groceries or to stop by for a visit.  My wonderful support system is such that my need for space is respected and understood.  My support system is made up of folks who do not force themselves in any way upon me.  And I appreciate that. 

Then this leaves the ball in my court. It is up to me... and yet I remain quiet.  I do not know why I simply cannot voice my need for emotional support, connection or hand-holding in a time such as this. 

Well, that's a lie.  I do know... because that would be admitting something to myself as well.  It would require me to simply receive the graces of another, to give voice to a need that I generally prescribe to others, when in actuality, I have that need too... and THAT, is the most human and beautiful act of all. 

So says the chaplain.

Irony's a bitch.