The tiny paper cup held within its contents 15 mg of Valium. I slugged them back like a professional pill popper using the proverbial shot glass of water provided. If you know me, then you understand the implications of the aforementioned sentence. To successfully swallow A pill, let alone three, is a true sign of my own personal growth and maturity.
Amidst the barrage of vaccinations prior to entering Kindergarten, I distinctly remember being held down by a team of nurses as I refused to allow the enlarged popsicle stick to snake its way down the back of my throat. Feisty at five years of age, my survival instinct left me no choice but to continuously uppercut and block the doctor's hand as he made his way toward my "say Ahhhhhh" positioned mouth. My mother, poised anxiously at the bedside, playing with the strap of her purse, making her best effort at cheering me on with "C'mon Rachel, it will only take a second." But still, I could not succumb on my own. Back up support arrived dressed in brightly patterned scrubs, holding down my limbs.
As a middle schooler, early in the throws of hormonal adjustments and the appalling realization that I could now breed, I forced down countless tablespoons of liquid that tasted like battery acid. Unable to fathom the idea of swallowing an entire aspirin roughly the size of a Tic-Tac, my mother dissolved that nasty little pellet in a swig of Pepsi for my sense of ease. "That was easier?" you may ask; well, I didn't do it for the taste.
As a college student, I continued to refuse the strep test from a physician whose look of incredulity said more than required. Sitting on the table, feverish and lethargic, he shook his head. "You mean to tell me you can have your ears pierced eight times and get a tattoo, but you're too scared for this?!" With utter defiance and determination, I clamped my mouth shut and signaled a curt nod. No way, no how. Not today. But please, please... make me feel better.
It was only years ago that I received a pill crusher from GNC as a gag gift, pun intended. With age and changing medical needs, I soon faced the reality of pills being a part of my daily existence. I slowly but surely grew increasingly comfortable with swallowing something that I was not supposed to chew. If we are talking about vitamins, I'm still a chewables girl. I have yet to find any form of supplement smaller than what seems like a baby's fist.
The thing about pain, though, is it stretches one's limits. I would never have imagined the day where I slammed back a couple of pills at a time like a real grown up. To this day, I remain in awe watching my best friend toss back a blood pressure pill, fluid pill, calcium pill, antihistamine, fried egg, beef tip and glass of wine in one fell swoop. How do you DO that?
But like a good patient, I obeyed the suggested orders prior to the injection. "I'll be back in a few minutes" the nurse said. So I laid back down, my dad sitting in the room with me, waiting for the relaxing effect of the medication to make itself known.
Before long, I was being wheeled down the hall towards the x-ray room. Something akin to a perma-grin settled onto my face, and I was joining in at random to the chorus of the Christmas songs playing overhead. I had no idea where the music was coming from. I only knew that I heard it, and I wanted to be a part of its jolly merry-making.
My eyes were heavy-lidded and oscillated between open and closed frequently. I found myself being rolled along in a gentle cloud on wheels, serenaded by Bing Crosby, traipsing about with mental images of feasting, fires and egg nog. The cloud came to a less-than-smooth stop. I giggled. Silly cloud.
"Okay on the count of the three, you're going to roll over on to the table" the mystery voice cooed.
"Mmmkay" I replied, revving myself up for what seemed to require a lot of effort though in actuality did not. I was surprised to be greeted by a pillow of soft and billowy proportions. Encouraged by the mystery voice to rest my head and relax, I yawned, puffed up the pillow to appropriate comfort, and rested my head.
"How are you feeling?" the mystery voice asked. I peeled my eyes open and saw only a colorful x-ray vest moving about the room. It reminded me of the cartoons of my youth, where the voice and the legs were all that was seen and heard of the character.
"Ohhh, I'm fine." I sighed. And returned to my caroling.
"Do you have a favorite Christmas song?" a new and accented voiced called from above. I was jolted from my revelry for just a moment, and then quickly recalled that I was interrupted from singing, and gave my best Sarah Palin response,
"Ohhh, any and all of them really." I had succumbed to the elation and relaxation of the moment. With eyes closed and grin firmly in place, I continued to my quiet one-person sing-a-long.
The doctor giggled in spite of himself. Clearly, I was high. Clearly, he knew this.
"Okay, just a pinch." I paused in my caroling. Let out a whimper. And returned to "We Wish You A Merry Christmas."
"You good?" asked that doctor.
"Mmmhmmm... and a happy New Year..."
"Okayyyy... just a pinch."
"Oh, ouch. Just hear those sleigh bells ring-a-ling, ting-ting-aling tooooo...."
"You're done. Good job."
"Wow, really? That wasn't bad AT ALL!" I exclaimed like a valley girl straight out of Clueless.
Greeted by my father's goofy grin upon my return to the room, I couldn't help but feel my heart swell up with insurmountable joy. I was just so grateful to be alive, to have my daddy there with me, to have a ride to my mommy's house where I knew there would be all manner of chocolate and pimento cheese and chips and cookies and meatloaf and a soft couch and love and attention and just a good time had by all. I took full advantage of the moment and held tightly onto my daddy's arm as he walked me to the car and entertained my nonsensical rambling.
Upon arrival to my childhood home, I felt like an 8 year old little girl all over again. I felt secure and cared for because of my boo-boo. What was a cloud on wheels became the cloud I walked on. Who knew that being a grown up (i.e. taking medicine) could come full circle to such a youthful and childlike experience? Ah, I suppose sometimes, adulting pays off. Even when you least expect it.
Especially when following doctor's orders.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Lazy Sunday with Charlie
Generally not one for "sitting still", I have reached a whole new level of intimacy with my heating pad. It beckons me to relax and to allow the tingling heat to work a peculiar sort of comforting magic. An otherwise grumpy attitude lengthens into unlabored breathing, heavy eye lids and a general sense of contentment.
The company of Oscar, my 6 month old dumpster kitty, contributes to the euphoria. He models how its done; the lazy grooming, the half-closed lids of his yellow eyes, the permission he grants himself to nap at random and/or attack the balls of yarn that I have tediously created during pauses in my never-ending crocheting ventures. He needs no validation. He exists without apology in his full feline-ness. Oh, to be a cat.
I contemplate going to the store. And then I think of the steps necessary to make that happen. It looks like this:
Pain and narcotics are great appetite suppressants. I realize that my caloric intake over the past few days has been a percentage of my normal habit. Next time I go to the bathroom, I'll be sure to remind myself to take a look. I swear my stomach feels a little flatter. I'm also laying down, but whatever. I'll take it.
The new running shoes peak through my closet door, bright pink, flashy and mocking me. I ignore them and turn the heat up in my heating pad. I pick up my ebook and fall away into its story, forgetting that I have things to do and an epidural injection tomorrow. And before I know it, I will have been "still" for hours on end in spite of myself.
This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation, yet I am grateful that I have the time. I long for the ability to ambulate normally and resent that I cannot. I study the printed image from my MRI, and grow queasy from the reality of it. The effect of the Hydrocodone not only lessens the pain and my appetite, it also lifts my spirits a touch, making it a very dangerous combination. I understand the addictive quality of this drug and others like it, and make myself feel better for taking it because I am, in fact, in pain.
Tomorrow's epidural injection will be my second go-round. My very first one took place in June. It was a traumatic experience, leaving me in a hospital bed, fetal position, wanting to suck my thumb. The five months of normalcy it provided, however, seem to be worth the trauma of a needle digging in my spine for 5 minutes. I resent that I need it. I am also hopeful that it will work as good as the first one. It's a confusing combination.
I decide to name my heating pad "Charlie." There is no rhyme or reason to it. At least, none that I am aware of. Maybe it's the Hydrocodone... and yes, it deserves a capital "H". Charlie sings me sweet lullabies and understands my need for comfort. Charlie baby's me. Charlie tells me it is okay to just be, to lay here and to rest.
I am grateful for Charlie.
The company of Oscar, my 6 month old dumpster kitty, contributes to the euphoria. He models how its done; the lazy grooming, the half-closed lids of his yellow eyes, the permission he grants himself to nap at random and/or attack the balls of yarn that I have tediously created during pauses in my never-ending crocheting ventures. He needs no validation. He exists without apology in his full feline-ness. Oh, to be a cat.
I contemplate going to the store. And then I think of the steps necessary to make that happen. It looks like this:
- Side roll from the bed, gingerly make my way to an upright position with as little discomfort as possible
- Use the toes on my right foot to retrieve the sweatpants previously discarded on the floor
- Donne said pants, lay back on bed to apply socks that I have picked out of my drawer at the foot of my bed
- Flop myself back to an upright position, and decide which shoes are appropriate for public observation while also appropriate for my minimal capacity to bend over
- Bra or baggy sweatshirt, whichever I come to first
- Shuffle my way to my purse, throw it on my shoulder
- Shuffle my way to the kitchen where my car keys reside
- Shuffle my way to my car which includes a total of 4 stairs from my back porch, precarious leaf-covered pits care of my dogs, and a chain link fence that jiggles and invites my sweet Lilly (boxer-mix-bestfriend) to be hopeful that she, too, can come along
- Guilt re: Lilly's hopeful puppy stare and the reality that she must remain where she is upon securing the gate
- Lowering myself in to the drivers seat with concentrated breathing, grunting and sigh upon making contact.
- Gingerly lifting one leg up and over, followed by the second
- Adjusting myself in the car, more concentrated breathing, and application of safety harness
- Making concerted effort to drive carefully and without pain to my destination, being mindful of the potential for nerve pain and a less-than-graceful dismount upon arrival
- Plotting out the closest and most convenient place to park that is legal and as private as possible
- Taking the 4 minutes necessary to turn car off, open door, extract my legs from floor board, brace myself against the back of seat and car door in an effort to make a smooth exit
- Making exit, not so smoothly, adjusting my clothes and attempting to stand upright
- Standing upright is not possible, slight pelvic thrust posture due to pain and inability to straighten spine
- Slow shuffle to store entrance feeling like I am on stage, spot light glaring, everyone staring and growing impatient with my slow gait as they wish to be on about their way
- Inside store, deciding whether I am comfortable enough to walk, pelvic thrust, behind a push cart or take the challenge with the motorized scooter that has the basket attached
- Navigate the store aisles for necessities while also not hitting displays, people or small children
- Making my way to the check out in whatever capacity previously decided
- Transporting groceries back to the legal and private parking spot where my chariot resides while the traffic with basses pumping watch, gawk and rev their engines by just as I am out of the way
- Opening trunk of car and placing groceries into its compartment
- Returning cart and/or scooter to predestined place
- Shuffling my return to car, and repeating the concentrated breathing/grunting/leg pulling fiasco that is now my reality
- See numbers 12 and 13
- Arriving to residence, barking dogs greeting me
- See number 8, but in reverse with groceries in tow
Pain and narcotics are great appetite suppressants. I realize that my caloric intake over the past few days has been a percentage of my normal habit. Next time I go to the bathroom, I'll be sure to remind myself to take a look. I swear my stomach feels a little flatter. I'm also laying down, but whatever. I'll take it.
The new running shoes peak through my closet door, bright pink, flashy and mocking me. I ignore them and turn the heat up in my heating pad. I pick up my ebook and fall away into its story, forgetting that I have things to do and an epidural injection tomorrow. And before I know it, I will have been "still" for hours on end in spite of myself.
This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation, yet I am grateful that I have the time. I long for the ability to ambulate normally and resent that I cannot. I study the printed image from my MRI, and grow queasy from the reality of it. The effect of the Hydrocodone not only lessens the pain and my appetite, it also lifts my spirits a touch, making it a very dangerous combination. I understand the addictive quality of this drug and others like it, and make myself feel better for taking it because I am, in fact, in pain.
Tomorrow's epidural injection will be my second go-round. My very first one took place in June. It was a traumatic experience, leaving me in a hospital bed, fetal position, wanting to suck my thumb. The five months of normalcy it provided, however, seem to be worth the trauma of a needle digging in my spine for 5 minutes. I resent that I need it. I am also hopeful that it will work as good as the first one. It's a confusing combination.
I decide to name my heating pad "Charlie." There is no rhyme or reason to it. At least, none that I am aware of. Maybe it's the Hydrocodone... and yes, it deserves a capital "H". Charlie sings me sweet lullabies and understands my need for comfort. Charlie baby's me. Charlie tells me it is okay to just be, to lay here and to rest.
I am grateful for Charlie.
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