This time of year is always tough for me. March 31 is approaching. July 09 is going to be worse. Prepare yourselves now.
Seven years ago, my world changed. Irreversibly. There is no way to fix what happened. There is no cure for what went wrong.
I had been in pain most of the day. I did all the things that usually made the pain go away. I would learn later that the things I did to end the pain were the equivalent of myth and it was merely coincidence that the pain ended when it did it.
That night it literally took all I had to crawl up 14 stairs from a basement and fling myself on a landing loud enough so someone would hear me. The pain was so bad, I could not speak. Yes, that's right, I could not speak. It took all I had to lay there and gasp for air. I felt like I was being stabbed. Not that I know what that feels like but the Drama Queen who dwells within has decided that is exactly what it would feel like.
I don't know how long it took the ambulance to get there but I do know it took three EMT's to pry me out of the fetal position. I remember being on a stretcher and hearing "Responds to stimuli, does not respond to commands." I had this moment of clarity at that point. Something inside me told me I was waaaay more than a wee bit fucked and all really was not well. I remember the needle. I remember the morphine hitting my blood stream and every part of me becoming very cold while my upper lip curled under. They had me on my back where the pain was and I couldn't get the words out to tell them. My mouth was dry and I had trouble seeing. Pain really can be blinding. I remember the disjointed screams; it sounded like me but it didn't feel like me. I remember the hot ambulance dood calling the hospital and asking if he could tranquilize me. Really really.
The next 20 hours were a blur. The stuff that was put in my I.V. before the CT scan made me feel like I had peed myself. The doc was sweet when he gave me the bad news and assured me that I had in fact not wet the bed but, on the ride back from the CT scan, I had vomited all over the halls of his nice, clean ER.
The rest is just a blur.
What I can tell you is this... for me, morphine is my go-to pain killer... what had previously been diagnosed as a "fussy" appendix would turn out to be gallstones that had pretty much turned my gall bladder into a big rock that was messing things up for my liver and pancreas... pancreatitis had developed because of the long term, untreated gall bladder disease... I would need to have surgery to remove the gall bladder... my pancreas was broken... no more alcohol, beef, pork, lamb, wild game, or fatty foods. I miss all of you.
The next few months after that were also life changing. Three and a half months later my gall bladder was removed through my belly button (no, really, it was). Post surgery complications (surgical site infection, pulmonary edema, hypoxia, low blood pressure, biliary dyskinesia) would land me back in the hospital. I would be told by two doctors that I had one last treatment to try and if that didn't work, I had three to six months to live and I needed to prepare myself for that because they were fairly certain this treatment would not work. Then the bastards starved me for a week. And then had the balls to say that I couldn't go home until I pooed. Me being me, I
I am in remission now and have been since May 2009. I won't bore you with all the details (minimum four BM'S a day kids!) but I will tell you the really important things I have learned...
... having a disease can define you and shape your life. You just have to decide how much of the definition is you and how much is the disease.
... a terminal diagnosis can be overcome by sheer willpower and brutal stubbornness, all you have to do is make that first decision... will I live or will I die?
... being hospitalized for more than a few days will show you who your friends and supporters are; look who is sitting by your bed, reflect on who is absent. The person sitting by your bed loves you more.
... if you suffer from chronic pain, as I do, find a way to deal with it and stop complaining about it because its not going anywhere and neither are you if you bitch about it all the damn time. I have days when I can barely get out of bed to make the phone call to say I won't be in to work but instead of complaining about the pain I remember I'm still lucky enough to be alive and I am still lucky enough to feel pain.
... because pancreatitis was historically thought to be a disease afflicting chronic alcoholics, when I go to the hospital because I am having a pancreatic attack, most staff at these medical facilities will suspect I am a drunk who destroyed their pancreas and is now on the prowl looking for drugs.
... Mundare Sausage, while is tasty yummy good stuff, will put me in the hospital for two days after projectile vomiting all over That Aunt's clean bathroom, thus ruining Christmas dinner. Go on, trump that!
... in my world, the liver bone is connected to the pancreas bone is connected to the kidney bone and I gotta keep my bones healthy.
... if I ever need to get all hood like dat, I can lift my shirt, show off my scars, and claim I got shot, just like Fiddy.
So ya, that's why I'm little Miss Grumpy Pants. And it is not because I feel sorry for myself. It is because I am broken and it cannot be fixed, no matter what I do. And I get frustrated and stabby having the precious time I have left wasted by people who can't find their ass with both hands, even if they have a road map and a tour guide.
And a shopping cart. Those fuckers always come with a shopping cart.
On that note, I need to go have BM number 4. Some days, having pancreatitis is shitty.
