I need to begin by saying that over this weekend, I have been doubting very seriously whether I should continue this blog. I had a tough weekend, pain wise, and therefore everything else-wise too. Up until now, this has been a lot of fun. I like writing. I actually like writing, but I’m not really sure why I am writing it. There are thousands of mommy-blogs out there. I thought that because I am dealing with pain on a daily, hourly, minute-ly basis, that my blog would just be different. I am usually a very private person so opening up about my personal stuff is out of character (and not easy) for me, but like any mom, I do like talking about my kids. And, I find myself wanting to write about the mommy experience more than the pain. I guess, though, that if I am going to continue writing this, I have to tell the whole story, not just the good parts. My story is a story of a mom with pain. And it hurts. A lot.
Part 1: The Rat
We have/had a rat that was coming and going as he pleases/d looking for tasty midnight treats. In the morning, we would find evidence that he had been here, in the form of a half eaten chocolate bar, a nibbled apple, an open tangerine, a plastic container of goldfish crackers which he ate right through the container to get to the crackers, and rat shit. At first we thought his food choices were amusing and so we thought he was amusing. We called him Elvis because we played a little game each morning, asking if he had made his nightly visit. If he hadn’t come, we would say “Elvis has left the building, ” hoping it was true so we would not have to add “get humane rat trap” to our already lengthy to-do list. This game went on much longer that most sane people would have allowed but while our sanity might be in question here, the main reason it went on as long as it did, is because we have 3 kids, 2 dogs, and my pain and very little time to give to the needs of all of them. This past weekend, however, enough was enough. I no longer found myself calling him Elvis, the joke was old so I just called him “the rat” and I simply wanted him to leave the building for good. So my husband and kids went to the hardware store, bought a roll of wire mesh and barricaded any possible entry point they could find. So far, we have not seen any signs of “the rat.” Besides if he kept up his eating habits, he would have died much like the real Elvis, fat and alone. I hope that our “not welcome” mat, will keep him away for good and we can limit any joking about him to mythical tabloid sightings, also like the real Elvis.
Part 2: The Pain
I have been calling my pain, “My Pain” for sometime now. It has a dramatic and tragic ring about it, much like that of “starving artist” and it separates it from anyone else’s pain. I think it also gives it too much importance in my life, giving it value as if, by being mine, it should be cared for and treated with all that much more respect. As of now, I am changing it’s name too. It is now just the pain, lowercase letters. And like the rat, I just want it to leave the building, my building, my body. There have been times over the last 2 1/2 years that I have co-existed with it, managing it through meds and lots of rest, ice, heat, etc. It has interrupted “My Life” too many times and has made itself more important than things in my life that really matter to me. This past weekend was especially difficult for me. The pain was off the charts reducing me to tears, confining me to bed and demanding I take more pain medicine than I usually allow myself. I spent Mother’s Day isolated from my children caring for the whiniest, most demanding one, the one that offered back no handmade card or gift, no hug or dimpled smile. My children were here, in this house, but I was too miserable to let them in. As you know, I am no fan of Mother’s Day, but it is important to my children and I blew it for them, big time. The thing was, and is, I couldn’t help it. Not because I couldn’t do anything about the physical pain, but this Mother’s Day, in the battle between the pain and me, the pain won and in dramatic knock down fashion. It won where I usually live. It isolated me, cut me off from my family and left me and them feeling lonely. I was sad, tired, hopeless-in a word, depressed. It is not just a funk, it is real true depression and I know because I’ve been there before. I feel hopeless that I will win this war. I really thought that when I returned from Florida, it would just be a matter of reducing my medications and I would find that the work done there would have ended this thing for me, or at least brought it down to a manageable level. While I think the work there helped significantly to break up many adhesions and reduce some of the pain, I am in more pain today than a year ago and I don’t know why. No one knows why. I have appointments scheduled, the names of new doctors to see, but I can’t muster the energy to see past the despair I feel right now-today. Maybe tomorrow, or even later today, I will find my New-England Red-Sox-fan faith, a nugget of strength, some anger to say “fuck you, pain, you are not going to win this war.” But not right now. I’m not going to post a pain meter today. I think you get the point without it. I am not seeking pity. Please, if i get pity, I will quit writing here and now. I am not seeking anything. I am just trying to be honest with you, my readers, whoever you are at this moment to tell the whole story of a mother with pain. Somedays, some whole weekends, maybe even longer, it just really sucks.