Ten Days Later (Viibryd)

After such a long wait & genetic testing to figure out which Rx to try, ten days into viibryd and I don’t know what to say. 

On one hand, I am no longer sobbing every day; however, my stomach hurts, and the last couple days I have developed a bad headache. This morning I decided to check my bp, and it was crazy high for me, 177/97 (when my norm usually is 117/70). I checked it a couple times in a row and the numbers kept going up. 

I texted the assistant for the NP who prescribed the Rx to me, to see if I could get a video appt for tomorrow, and as of yet (9 pm), still no reply. So I am popping magnesium & taurine and hoping it will bring my numbers down enough to keep me out of the danger zone. 

In the interim, I am left with the worry that I might have to sacrifice my mental health for my blood pressure, or visa versa. Quite the dilemma. 

The Journey Continues—Or Begins AGAIN

Finally, seven months after requesting a neuropsychological eval, getting a couple official diagnoses, and finally getting a psychiatric NP, and finally getting the results back from genetic testing to determine the best choice of Rx, after 11 years being off antidepressants, I am back on them.

I don’t count the Wellbutrin I started (and stopped) earlier this year as anything other than yet another failure—and technically, the 11 year statement still applies. 

So far I have 2 doses in, and too early to tell. Plenty of abdominal discomfort and gastric distress, but that should pass in a week or two—and if it doesn’t, hey, maybe I might lose some weight. Who knows. Pigs can fly too, right? 

Today I’m heading into NYC for my regular cardiologist appt. It is almost like old times—just with an N95. 

As always, now-a-days, I just hope I don’t catch COVID or something worse by going to the doctor’s office. 

Day 124

It’s wild to consider I am now 124 days post op from my hip replacement. All things considered, I’m pretty amazed at the whole process. Although I am not 100% better, I have managed to get back roughly 85% of my range of motion, and hope as time goes by and I continue to heal, that eventually I’ll be able to put my socks and pants on without having to put my leg in place with my hands. 

Pain has diminished, save for the incision hyper-sensitivity, and my inability to roll over on my left side. Yet. hopefully in time that will change too. 

These days I limp because of my problems with my feet, and this week I found (yet another) specialist who has a real plan (or “recipe” as he calls it), and today I start therapy with him for my feet and get cast for yet another pair of orthotics. 

Hopefully this will be enough to diminish my agonizing foot pain enough where I won’t be entertaining surgery on my ankle. The ankle has some soft tissue damage from my Mexican Adventure in 2019, but right now besides an occasional uncomfortable POP!, and instability, I don’t have pain. My pain issues are all on the bottom of the feet, bi lateral  heel spurs and plantars fasciitis. 

As I told the doc, I had the hip replaced to diminish pain and increase mobility, yet because of my feet, I can’t walk more than 3000 footsteps a day without losing countless days after, due to the resulting pain. 

So yet again, I start yet another journey of a thousand miles with a new specialist, and today I take those precious first steps. 

Day 112 Post-Op

Not much to report here, as things continue to trundle along on its own trajectory. I was discharged from PT on 10/25/2022, with glowing details of "excellent" compliance post-op. I'm still struggling a bit to cross the leg and do the external rotation necessary to put on my socks, but I guess that will all come back to me in due time. Follow-up with ortho is set for January 2023.

10/10/2022 was a duo of appointments, nephrologist and a neurologist. Nephrologist was usual six month check up for my blood pressure and I'm being monitored for CKD. Neurologist was a long-awaited EMG which didn't bear much fruit beyond median neuropathy of both wrists, mild to moderate neuropraxia (mild left, moderate right) on both sides, as well as left ulnar neuropathy at the elbow/cubital tunnel syndrome. 

Physiatrist is on maternity leave until January, so I guess at this rate I won't know what the next course of action will be. Maybe I can schedule my follow up with the ortho and my follow up with the physiatrist on the same day?

The only appointments in December are my annual appointments with both, my cardiologist, as well as the neuro-ophthalmologist. 

Still masking and COVID negative, and anxious as hell about both.

Started speaking with a trauma therapist/clinician three weeks ago, and had 2 appointments with a psychiatric NP to help navigate and identify an Rx to help support me while I "right my sails." Still waiting on authorization from insurance regarding genetic testing to find the optimal Rx--however, it's been 3 weeks, and I wish we just settled on Prozac so I would be on SOMETHING in the interim, as I'm still sobbing daily, and having anxiety attacks.

Still avoiding people--which is easy because at this point most people are avoiding me. 

New Normal

I don’t know about anyone else, but the “new normal” looks just like the old normal. Or “new normal” clearly means different things to different people, as clearly a lot of us are living entirely different realities. 

One reality is science based & cautious, masking & vaxxing and trying to ride out this mess. Another reality can be summed up thusly: “what mess?” As if 1.2Million+ US Americans haven’t died because of COVID. 

“The fish stinks from the head” as the old saying goes, and in this situation, the head is the WH & the CDC, both of which are misleading us into thinking we are post-pandemic, which clearly we are not. 

“It’s the new flu.” From Jan-Aug of this year (2022), 225K US Americans died of COVID—that figure is FIVE TIMES more deaths in any given year for flu deaths. 

I admit to not being a “math person”; however, I understand how it should work, and in this case, the numbers should be going DOWN markedly in order to justify removing all the mitigation efforts to beat COVID into submission. 

Instead, we are told lie after lie, meanwhile kids in school, people in nursing homes, as well as disabled & immunocompromised people all are being sacrificed to The New Big Lie (that the pandemic is over), all to keep the economy churning along, yet the powers that be fail to realize there are still supply chain interruptions and interruptions of service DUE TO COVID MAKING PEOPLE SICK AND MAKING THEM DIE. 

Instead of the pandemic ending because it has actually become managed and endemic like the flu, the powers that be have eliminated mitigations & discontinued testing & contact tracing & reporting—simply put IGNORING & DENYING this issue still exists. 

Meanwhile people continue to get infected & re-infected with (what I predict will be called respiratory HIV) COVID, get sick and either get Long COVID/disabled by it or die from it, which benefits no one. It doesn’t benefit us the people, it doesn’t benefit the economy, either. 100% it benefits people who have a vested interest in the companies that make the anti-viral meds etc. 

In 2020, I was one of the first people I knew who started masking & I will no doubt be one of the last to discontinue doing so. 

In “The Beforetimes” I was neurotic, risk averse, and distrustful of others, and in the 948 days since the beginning, I have become even more so. 

Survey finds more than 40% of Americans have misled others about having COVID19 and use of precautions

This article only confirms what I have *witnessed* with my own eyes with people I KNOW, and further drives home so many things: I can’t trust anyone anymore, and how radically different I assess my risks than most people. 

My sister (who should know better) claims she has been careful yet goes unmasked—and has caught COVID multiple times. “I guess I should’ve masked up” yet continues not to mask. 

One friend has traveled internationally to developing countries that lack vaccines for their citizens. She does stand up in small venues and doesn’t mask up. She goes to super spreader events & is the only one wearing (a poorly fitting fabric mask). “I gotta live my life.”

My office manager has done air travel this year & came to the office coughing & visibly sick 10 days before my surgery, yet never considered testing herself & staying home. 

 My life for the last 948 days has been work, medical appointments & judicious grocery shopping (off peak days/hours in store shopping, curbside pick up where available, and delivery for as much as possible). I get the rare pedicure during off peak early time of the day with an empty salon, and controlled road trips with my UV HEPA air purifier in tow. 

I am doing more than other immunocompromised people, and doing substantially less than COVID deniers. 

All this cognitive dissonance is reckless & devastating to witness, and only fills me with despair & feel even more isolated. It also fills me to the brim with rage & disgust.

I think to myself “how am I to manage being around these people once all this is really a thing of the past?” And then I laugh at myself and remind myself, “don’t worry, they never gave a shit about you, and they have already forgotten about you.”

Day 91 Making Microscopic Adjustments

Three days ago was my regular six month check up with my kidney specialist. All looks as good as possible. My kidney function has maintained and in some regards improved, though there is still damage to my kidneys from all those years before my PCOS diagnosis and the related obesity. 

Some days I start to get down on myself that I haven’t lost as much weight as I had hoped, but i look at my markets for fatty liver and how that improved, and I think of how my bypass has helped stop the kidney damage from progressing, and that is more than enough to keep me from spiraling further into ruminating on what a failure I am. 

Things I hope to improve are:

Glucose: 105

EGFR: 76

HDL: 56

LDL: 134

TRI: 140

I am hoping the combination of walking more now that my hip was replaced, and I am starting yerba mate supplementation today might help those numbers improve. 

Yerba mate is just a tool in the tool box and not a magic wand to make everything perfect, and I know ultimately a lot of my improvements (as always, with other issues) hinges on a commitment to change and consistency. 

Since I’ll be tracking those other numbers, I am putting my current LFTs herein as a baseline, to see if there is any negative impact to the liver function:

ALP: 92

AST: 27

ALT: 21

It took well over a year before my LFTs returned to normal after that unexpected turn/crisis after my first shot of Pfizer triggering a bout of acute hepatitis. 

Who knows? Maybe the yerba mate might be a mood booster too. It is worth trying, plus Maharajah had a bottle of it on hand. At the very least it is a choice to make, an item to check off on my “things I tried” list. Only time will tell if it will help me achieve my goals. 

Next time I see the kidney guy, will be in April. Six months is more than enough time to see if the numbers budge. 

To be continued! 

Day 88

Yesterday was day 88, but was too pooped to peck out the journal entry. 

Several years before my hip replacement, there was a day I spent in NYC where my footsteps were well over 10k. I remember it vividly today. VIVIDLY because my foot is killing me. 

I have plantars fasciitis & a heel spur & some soft tissue damage from what I call a catastrophic sprained ankle I endured in May 2019 when I tagged along on a business trip to Mexico. I am just thankful I didn’t snap my neck as the resort did nothing to make things right for me at that time; and here it is 3 years & 5 months later, and I am still hobbled by that accident. PS: Fuck the management at Nizuc! 

Anyway, yesterday was my regular six month appointment with my kidney doc—always a delight to see him. What a wild ride it has been the last 945 days. 

2020 I saw him in video appointments only. 

2021 I saw him in person, but no hand shaking. 

2022 I saw him in April and no hand shaking. I saw him yesterday (6 months later), and we shook hands. It was startling to me, and it seemed like such an intimate gesture after all we have been through. Part of my brain was saying “FUCK FOMITES!” and the other part of my brain ensured I sprayed hand sanitizer on my hands the first chance I got. 

So yesterday was like any other Columbus Day in the beforetimes: I had a double header of appointments scheduled, and even managed to go to the Neue Gallerie to visit the Klimt exhibits between my two appointments. 

I neglected to consider difficulties getting a cab due to traffic disruptions due to the parade. Maharajah kept suggesting getting an Uber and tbh my experience with Uber in NYC sucks, as they rarely pick me up at the door or location where I am, and I have to endure a game of “Where’s Waldo” trying to find the car. 

Time was of the essence and I just kept goofing it until I just gave up hope of hailing a cab at all—and in doing so, I hobbled myself like I did that last time. 

Every time I took a step with my right foot, it was as if I were driving a firey hot ten penny nail right into my heel. 

I had one more thing on my to do list, to visit one of the secret gardens in NYC (this one, at the Ford Foundation not far from the UN), but Maharajah but his foot down and made the executive decision to save it for another day. He got us an Uber, and I bruised my hip getting into it, and the driver drove us right past the building where I wanted to go. Perhaps another day. 

So good news is, my hip held up great during the 9K+ footsteps, but bad news, my foot really is demanding some relief. And I am reluctant to have surgery on it because the recovery time is much longer than for my hip, and it is my right foot which means  won’t be able to drive and do things independently. 

Today was a follow up with the surgeon as well as a PT appointment, and in both cases I had to emphasize my limping was due to my foot. Hip replacement was the project for 2022. I guess my project for 2023 will be my foot, though I am not sure how I will make that happen. 

Day 87

This week I had appts with/for trauma therapy, physical therapy, and a consultation with a psychiatric NP to evaluate possible meds to support me. 

Not much to report beyond the trauma therapist seems like a good fit & was a good listener & validating; and the consultation with the NP didn’t hear fruit yet. No meds yet. She is starting the process to get genetic testing pre-authorized to see which Rx might be best, though we did discuss possibilities, and I won’t be surprised if I end up on prozac. 

So in the meantime, I am still struggling with sadness, grief, rage, resentment, and panic attacks and dissociating—and just feeling profoundly alone and exhausted, and exasperated that no one seems capable to help me. And at the same time, I bristle at shreds of caring from others, and just want to push everyone away. I don’t want to grab their hands to help myself, as I am convinced I will only drown both of us as my emotional rip tide pulls us both under water and away from shore. 

Day 79

I am anxious and on the verge of tears pretty much all the time. I feel as if I were waiting for death. I wonder if this is what people who are terminal feel like, anxious, knowing the end is near, and feeling so alone in that discomfort, and knowing none of their loved ones can lighten that burden of foreboding. 

Day 78

I’ve been an insomniac my entire life, and have battled with night terrors since my teen years, so I can’t blame the pandemic for this; however, surely the pandemic isn’t helping things. 

I nodded off while watching tv last night, only to wake up to take my meds & use the toilet then be unable to drift off to sleep again. 

I nodded off briefly, only to wake up in tears saying to my mother, “if you have the ability to be anywhere, why haven’t you visited me even once? Why can’t we say we are sorry NOW? Sorry that we wasted our precious time together being angry or jealous or resentful? Why won’t you give me in death what you were unable to give me while you were alive?” 

My eyes are tearing up as I type this. What is it going to take to make me whole again? What is it going to take to make me stop sobbing each day?

Day 77 Slogging Away At Self Care

This past weekend I went for my first pedicure since my surgery. My feet were pretty messed up, and I wanted my feet in better shape because I had a Reiki session the next day, after which, I came home and dropped off into a 3 hour nap. 

All things regarding the hip are moving along. Still can’t cross my leg & externally rotate my knee to put on socks yet. Yesterday my PT ran me through my paces. 

So far I have lined up a therapist who allegedly has a focus in trauma based therapy. And a couple days ago I found a psychiatric NP who I hope will be able to find a Rx that might help me manage my C-PTSD. Therapy is scheduled for Monday 10/3/22 and the NP is 10/7/22. A plan will be devised to help me manage my symptoms. 

Plenty more to transpire before I return to the office on 10/17/22, more PT, a visit with my kidney doc, an EMG/nerve root conduction test on my shoulder & elbow, and yet another follow up with my surgeon to see how I am doing. 

I am still anxious, angry, and sobbing every day, and I am acutely aware how unprepared my husband and friends are, and how unable they are to help me. I feel like I am sinking further into the abyss, and all I am getting is “I’m sorry,” or “don’t say that” or worse, toxic positivity. Trauma doesn’t respond to any of this. 

Two things can exist simultaneously. I miss my mom, and my mom was the source of a lot of my trauma. 

Her death & the isolation I still am doing (within reason, after all I did say I went for a pedicure—just me and the shop owners and we were all wearing masks) makes me feel more alone than I am, and it is breaking my spirit. Pretty much my siblings have forsaken me, and mom’s sister too. I CBT the hell out of this and remind myself it is just as well as they all are continuing to catch and transmit this virus that killed mom. And I wonder if I am already a ghost. How easy it is for my family to continue on, and I am barely even an after thought. 

I am sobbing again. 

Day 71 & “Summer of Self Care”

I’m wondering what kind of timeline I should keep regarding my hip replacement—100 days? 365? 

Physical therapy went well yesterday. Only a couple more sessions, and then I’ll be on my own. 

Yesterday I broke down & revisited the neuropsychology group from which I was seeing one of their therapists from February until April before I decided to discontinue as the therapist I had settled on/for was only reinforcing toxic positivity and was doing nothing for my trauma. 

I called yesterday, again, out of a sense of futility & desperation, hoping they had someone on staff who has a focus in trauma based therapy—and they do—and I set up my initial appointment. This was also convenient as I didn’t have to register again, and they participate in my insurance. So here we go again—hopefully this therapist has the chops to help me. 

Meanwhile, I am still waiting on a call back from the behavioral health group at a hospital near me, as I would like a consultation with a psychiatrist to find out what my options are regarding medication that might help me in this process. 

This week I received an email regarding a “mandatory training” session which is scheduled for the day after I return to the office. The training will have everyone crammed into a conference room—which, coupled up with the lack of masking or improvements in air quality in our office, just is a formula for disaster. 

I have been ruminating on this all week, getting anxious and tense, about something that hasn’t even happened yet. 

I don’t like to share too much personal shit with my boss, however, I eventually relented and replied to the email and merely asked if I would be able to sit in on the training at my desk, and that I’ve been diagnosed with c-ptsd and being in an enclosed space with others is going to be a challenge for me. My boss replied, “Absolutely.” 

She further suggested I reach out to HR regarding special accommodations, and that will be my next step once I have set up an appointment with a psychiatrist.

Day 69

Just filled with despair. Again. Hip is fine but the c-ptsd is kicking my ass as always. 

The process starts all over again, to find the “pink unicorn,” in this case a psychiatrist and a therapist who are taking new patients, accept my insurance, and either are local to me or offer zoom sessions. 

The never ending calling, then waiting for return calls which go no where. The constant seeking out new names. Wasting more time. 

I have been over-stimmed and distressed recently as the 38 year old husband of my cousin died suddenly. I woke up this morning in tears, after having a nightmare where I watched a boat my husband was on capsize. I woke up in tears, and in the nightmare I was convinced he died. 

I wish it were ME who died. I don’t want to exist anymore.  

Day 64

Wow! 64 days since my surgery, and it has been a while since my last update. 

I’m still working from home & doing two  PT appointments per week. I am managing 2000-3000 foot steps each day. 

“Neuro-muscular re-education” is the goal. As many foot steps as I am doing, I am still unable to lift and cross my leg to put my socks on. 

Had my follow up with the neuropsychologist regarding my psych eval. Finally got a diagnosis. Unsurprisingly, it is C-PTSD (complex ptsd). PTSD is often only a singular event (like 9/11 for example), whereas complex ptsd is a steady diet of trauma.  

Apparently my cognitive abilities & language aptitude was classified as superior.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t diagnosed as autistic. Apparently the uncertainty & worry I have regarding “how long is too long to have a conversation,” and my belief that most people just are too polite to stop me, actually is not autism, but self awareness. And given how self-aware I am, that also ruled out narcissistic personality disorders. 

My problem is I have a great capacity for language. I don’t engage in small talk—which actually bores me. Too many people operate on the surface, whereas I operate from a place of depth. I overwhelm people. 

So next step for me will be a consult with a psychiatrist to explore medication options, and line up a therapist who specializes in trauma based therapy. 

Day 48

Today’s achievement unlocked: I put my pants on by myself. Maharajah didn’t help & I didn’t use an assistive device. It took some finessing, but I was able to do it. 

Today during PT, I mentioned my goal to put my socks on, and also for help stretching my quadriceps especially in the leg impacted by the surgery, so we focused on that today. She put me on the leg press & increased the weights without telling me (I knew immediately). Then 5 minutes on the exercise bike, which sadly only burned 20 calories!

Fridge was feeling a bit light today so I stopped for groceries & walked a bit more to find everything on the list in my head. By the time I got home I already accumulated 2336 footsteps. 

Day 44

Still waiting for the call from the neuropsychology group for a follow up appointment. 

Everything is otherwise good, except I started sobbing today. I miss both of my parents. And as fucked up as it truly is, I miss the idea of having family. 

Day 43

To expand on what I shared with the neuropsychologist during that four hour psych eval: 

Between 50+ years of emotionally destructive narcissistic abuse on top of a foundation of adverse childhood experiences, feeling unsafe, feeling like a failure, a burden or a problem, being hyper sensitive because of all that, coupled up with pain, anxiety & a baseline of dysthymia, the pandemic & unaddressed or processed grief over my mom dying, this all is negatively impacting my perception & performance at my job where I feel like a failure, a burden and a problem. 

My mom might have set this dynamic in motion; however, she is physically gone now, and I am the common denominator now in my problems, and I need professional help to try and untangle this mess because it impacts everything, and is holding me back, as well as it is impacting my ability to experience & cultivate joy. 

Day 42: The Six Week Mark

Still going to PT 2x a week, banging out close to 2,000 footsteps daily. By 1 pm today I achieved 1,771 footsteps—the day is still young. 

After PT, I went to Wegmans (which no doubt added to my step count), and then to the post office to drop off a letter. Then back home.

Today I am off medical leave and technically working. Basically today will be email inbox housekeeping, setting up new agency laptop & packaging the old one to be sent back to IT. Hard to believe it is nearly 900 days since the shut down in 2020. In some respects ties sure flies, but for me, for the most part, time has stood still. I struggle remembering what day of the week it is, and an always ama ed it is now 2022. 

I am still waiting on the results of my psych eval; however, I am reminded that at the end of 2018 I had a meltdown at work due to a debacle someone else created—and I was the one who was lectured on my attitude, which then had whatever hope I had just plummet—hope that my (then new) boss would usher in a breath of fresh air in my office, and instead, left me with the oh so familiar message that I am a problem. The same message that was conveyed to me by my mom for five decades of my life. 

At the end of 2018 when faced with this mess, it not only fill me with despair, but had me re-evaluate everything and I came to the conclusion to discontinue talk therapy sessions with my therapist after nine years of just stagnating.

My annual eval was the week before I went out on medical leave, and suddenly after 20 years of being in my job, suddenly there is some respect or regard given to my capacity for institutional knowledge—and after 20 years of basically having my arms tied behind my back, suddenly my input is wanted—YET! at the end of 2018, I learned first hand no one wants my input because it doesn’t align with what they want to expect to hear. 

So, I can’t help but see my seeking out a psych evaluation as just an extension of the 2018 bullshit messaging, that I’m a problem. 

My mom is no doubt to blame for this as well as my problem with most older women and women in positions of authority over me. But right now? I am the common denominator. 

I was hoping to use these past six weeks to start devising a plan of escape from this job. I started (and stopped!) reading What Color Is My Parachute. I lack the focus to sit and read and do the exercises in the book Maharajah found so useful last year during his career crisis. 

Periodically, the agency I work for runs retirement workshops at certain times during the year. I got an email this week about the next workshops & I let HR know I was interested. So that is a step in the right direction, I hope. By the time I am literally back in the office, it will be 11 more months until I am able to (I hope) retire from this job. 

Waiting for the results of the psych eval is like waiting for a baby to be born. So much anticipation and uncertainty, but I hope my life will be positively changed as a result.

Day 34

After a lifetime of feeling like I were a problem, and at a minimum the last four years (out of a total of 20 at my job) feeling like a problem at my job, I sought out, planned for, and finally had my four hour psych evaluation. 

In some ways the feedback I got during the process was very validating, especially in regards to my unaddressed grief over mom’s death & the precarious COVID hellscape we are all trying to navigate. 

Afterwards, I sat in my car and completed a 375 question survey as all part of the process. So now I wait for them to call & arrange my follow up visit where we go over the results.

The eval delved into all manner of things. Visual memory stuff, remembering weird geometric shapes, putting blocks in order to duplicate images, remembering long lists of words, having me pronounce a long list of words, and pressing me for not just definitions of words (two of which pavid and another words I cannot remember right now but I didn’t know the definition of them), but also couplets of words & have me say what they had in common—some, such as time and progress, for me were difficult to discern. 

She really appreciated how thoroughly I answered the intake form, and I even provided a power point presentation I created to hopefully cut through a lot of time. 

Day 32

I saw surgeon on Friday. He gave me the green light to shower today. 

I’m doing a little better each day. Today was the first day since 7/14 I was able to take a complete shower (without wrapping my ass in saran wrap) rather than bird baths & sink shampoos. 

I showered up before heading out for my first out patient PT session, run two errands, then visit my chiropractor. And yes, I showed him the shark bite. 

Tomorrow is a do nothing day, so I’ll rest up. Then Thursday is my psych eval, I can’t wait. 

Day 30: Bottoming Out Emotionally

Yesterday Maharajah took me out for an early birthday lunch after our acupuncture appointments. 

It is owned by a famous chef, and is otherwise a nice place, if you’re into name recognition over everything else. It is in a town that isn’t racially diverse, doesn’t have any non-white employees, and doesn’t even have salt and pepper at the table. The latter detail presumes a lot, as everyone’s tastes are different. Whatever, right? 

One problem I will admit to is I get overwhelmed and rather say something i let it slide until I just lose it. What should have been an enjoyable outing gradually spiraled downward into something else entirely. 

Right from moment one when we arrived, my sphincter clenched: valet parking. 

Even before COVID, I loathed valet parking. I don’t like the idea of a stranger in my car, and often times a teenager who is a relatively new driver. Now with COVID, it adds a whole new level of angst. 

I had barely pulled up, and this unmasked snot nose grabbed at my door handle as I growled, “Give me space!” as I reclined the seat all the way back so I could maneuver out of the car.

The spiral consisted collections of stimulants:

Then inside (no masks!), they see me with my cane, and when I asked for most direct route to get to the patio--they walk me down 2 dark flights of stairs with a railing wet with god knows what, rather than have me walk out front door and around building. 

The seat was too low and I hurt myself sitting down. I waited for 4 weeks for my incision to heal up, and while I sat on this uncomfortable seat I worried I ripped my incision open. I sat in silence and discomfort rather than ruin M’s lunch. 

Lady at the adjacent table was ranting about politics, as someone else’s dog trapped in a car howled—we are in the middle of August! All I could think of was the dog’s suffering. 

The menu is limited, and they try to make everything too extra/fancy,  and there is no guarantee I will enjoy my meal--which of course was the case bland bland bland. 

I ordered a squash and chorizo pizza which looked pretty enough; yet it was really lacking in taste. The bits that had chorizo were great; however on a 12 inch pizza, there were about 10 slices of chorizo which had the diameter of a dime. 

We waited too long to get check, my hip throbbing at this point, so i got up to go get the car while he settled the bill, and in doing so i missed the nice birthday gesture. 

Maharajah tries to make my bday special, it isn't like any of my kin (other than my distant cousin David) has anything to do with me.

I just wish i knew how to shake it off--catch myself before I start to spiral and just shake it off. I was sour since I came home, and even a nice long nap with an ice pack on my ass wasn’t enough to snap me out of it. 

Sadly, for the first time in a month, I woke up disappointed I didn’t die in my sleep, and I was in tears by 10 a.m. 

Day 28

Today was my initial eval for out patient PT. And so far so good. I set clear goals and we scheduled as many appointments as we could for the moment. I go back in five days. 

I managed to go to Trader Joe’s & get my grocery shopping done. Then off to Harmon for some items, one of which is a package of Mederma for when I finally get news from the surgeon that my incision has finally healed up, I’ll then start buttering my bum each night in the hopes of making the scar somewhat less gnarly. 

I then placed an order for Ramen for lunch, and Maharajah helped lug everything inside when I got home. 

All in all a productive day so far. 

Day 27: Rehab Might As Well Be A Full Time Job

So far I have waited nearly 2 weeks to schedule my initial eval for out patient PT, and schedule as many appointments as possible. And in doing so, I am disturbed by the fact they are no longer doing COVID screenings, and that leads me to speculate that masking isn’t mandatory anymore. 

Between the on-going COVID hellscape, and the fact that as of today NY state has reported 2,132 Monkeypox cases, I’ll be wearing long pants, long sleeves, and an N95 mask for tomorrow’s eval. 

Tomorrow is the PT eval, Friday is yet another appt with the surgeon to inspect my incision, and next week is a flurry of PT and other medical appointments.  

Still? A better and more productive use of my time than being in the office.

Day 26 Post Op

 Today I finally got discharged from the physical therapist. I really had hoped that the male PT would be here, as I really go a lot out of those sessions. 

Additionally, she said she’d arrive between 12:30 and 1:30, and I rushed to get washed up and ready, burning a lot of energy to do so, and she arrived at 1:30. 

Meanwhile I had shit to do today but lost steam sitting around waiting for her. Tomorrow’s another day, but just because I am recovering from major surgery & require PT does not mean I don’t have other things I want & need to do. 

So, tomorrow I’ll get those things done: Rx pick up at Sams (as well as a curbside pick up there too, as I can’t walk the entire warehouse yet), do a UPS drop off, and maybe call the out patient PT place again and see if they can finally get me an appointment. 

I really don’t want to go to my third choice place because even with masking mandates, they weren’t enforcing it stridently, and I spent the entire time in my sessions anxious. I have no doubt in my mind no one is masking there anymore at this point.

Meanwhile, my first choice doesn’t take my insurance, but I have met my deductible for physical medicine, and if I were to go there, it would cover 50% of my sessions—which over the course of six weeks, 3x a week, will add up. 

So about that Rx pick up for tomorrow…

My surgeon has me on a 5 week course of blood thinner due to my Factor Five Leiden Mutation. At the hospital, I got a 30 day supply, but I need an additional week’s worth of pills. 

I messaged my doc and asked if I could just resume my dietary supplements on day 31, as they thin the blood, and he mixed it and said this is the protocol. Great. Right?

So I get a text notification from he pharmacy informing me my Rx is ready and it costs $30–FOR SEVEN PILLS ($4.29 per pill!). I called to verify it went through insurance & they verified it did, in fact, go through insurance, because without insurance the cost would be $140.00 ($20 per pill!). 

I am not sure WTF is going on, because the 30 day supply I received from the hospital pharmacy cost me less than $20. At this point I am not sure who the fuck is robbing me, and I am glad I will be off these pills soon. 

So far the EOB for the surgery itself was about $5K—the anesthesiologist was $5k+, with a total over $11K. I am now waiting for the EOB for the hospital facility billing—I’m sure that’ll be a doozie, and again, fortunate that I have a good medical plan—for now.  

Day 25

Today was my final appointment with the occupational therapist. He had plans on working my upper body today, but I ambushed him when he arrived and told him what I had planned on doing with him :)

I told him that we’re going down the stairs and out to the car so he can witness my form in and out of the car. At 10 a.m. it was already close to 90F, zero breeze and we both were sweating profusely when we got back inside. 

He discharged me, and I thanked him for all his recommendations, and we both parted ways giving each other an A+ grade. 

Now I sit and wait to get back from the visiting PT, as well as the outpatient PT facility for my next appointment & first appointment. 

Friday will be hopefully the final inspection on my incision, and at that point I will be able to shower with a bit more confidence. 

I have packaged up whatever parts I could, and will be sending the grab bar back for a refund. Not sure how I will get the mounting cleats off the wall of my shower. I might check youtube for a tutorial—if one exists, it is surely there. Then I will have to order a new grab bar and have a professional install it. 

Now? I nap!

Day 23 & 24

On Friday’s appt, the surgeon gave me the green light to drive, and I waited one day, and here I am on my way to my acupuncture appointment. Ah! Sweet independence! 

Despite Maharajah’s insistence I return straight home, I did manage to go to the local greenhouse for veggies, and I stopped at Dunkin for iced tea & a breakfast sammy, and I sat in the car like old times, having some private time eating breakfast & listening to podcasts before returning home. 

Today I decided THIS IS IT!! I wasn’t going to wait one more day for this pesky incision to heal up before attempting to shower. I spent half of July doing sink shampoos and bird baths and no matter how thorough I have cleaned, it is nothing like a shower. 

So today, we wrapped my buttock in some Glad cling wrap, and hoped for the best. Given the grab bar debacle, I was anxious but managed to get a good enough showering and shampoo done, then had a nap of several hours. 

We picked up laundry as it was ready at the cleaners, and we picked up our dinner order then headed to our favorite park to sit in the car and eat dinner, and get a little walk in before heading home. 

So far today it is a paltry 1,078 footsteps, and I managed one trip down and one trip back up the stairs. I even managed to get in and out of the car without relying on my yoga strap. 

Tomorrow morning the occupational therapist will be here, and I am not sure what he has planned for me, but I guess I will suggest taking the trash out and show him how I get in and out of the car, so hopefully he will finally dis harge ne tomorrow. I think I have one more appointment with the visiting PT, too, I just don’t know when they will arrive. I hope it is the male PT, I get more out of those appts. 

Day 22: It’s Not A Vulva, It’s An Incision

 

Today is day 22 post-op, and I saw the surgeon (again) and will be seeing him (again) next week to inspect my incision . 

In this photo you can see some remnants of the adhesive surgical mesh, and the bit in the upper right part of the photo is what has been problematic; however, it is gradually shrinking. 

It’s still going to leave a gnarly scar, and I don’t care all that much as I don’t have eyes in the back of my head; however, I might think hard and long and come up with a clever idea for a tattoo to camouflage it. 

To show the personality of my surgeon, when he entered the exam room, he cheerfully quipped, “Show me the goods!” and I responded by hoisting my dress up and presenting my shark bite for inspection.

I got the green light to drive as I’ve been off vicodin for 10 days now. Showers & sex have to wait one more week. 

Although I started the day using the walker when I first got up, I used the cane for the remainder of the day. Also worth mentioning, I was a bit rushed when I left the house for the surgeon appointment, and I forgot my yoga strap; be that as it may, I managed to get in and out of the car without much difficulty. 

After the appointment, we picked up our lunch at what now is or will be our routine place, and sat in a metered parking spot devouring it. Afterwards, I managed to walk to an Indian market right there, and get a good browse on, and managed to pick up some falooda ice cream as a nice reward for the day. 

The day is not over yet, but the pedometer on my phone is showing 1,338 footsteps. 

Adventures in Grab Bar Installation

I ordered the grab bar the occupational therapist suggested, and it sat for 4-5 days despite me asking M. for help installing it, as I am *clearly* unable to do so. 

It sat. First in the living room in clear view. Then I moved it to the bathroom and placed it in his sink. Nothing. 

So, I asked the OT for help installing it. And we did the best we could, following the instructions. I even measured out exactly where I wanted it and traced an outline around the flanges at the top and bottom. 

We glued the cleats in place yesterday. It cured 24 hours overnight. And M tried screwing everything together ABD OF COURSE IT IS FUCKED UP. 

He then suggested “it’ll do,” and when I attempted to grab the bar and put probsbly 10-20 pounds of pressure on it, the bar ripped from the cleat without difficulty. Yeah. “It’ll do.” What it will do is facilitate ne snapping my neck. 

So M set about criticizing the OT’s work, and that he could have done a better job, which just invoked my inner Kali-ma level rage, “Yeah? BUT YOU DIDN’T!!! I ASJED YOU FOR HELP! IT SAT FOR 4-5 FUCKING DAYS AND YOU DIDBT BOTHER EVEN OPENING THE BOX! I HAVEN'T SHOWERED IN THREE FUCKING WEEKS!!

I have been on my feet for over three hours puttering in the kitchen. Food prep. Cleaning. Setting up my coffee pot for tomorrow. Unloading AND loading the dishwasher. Corn bread baked. Black bean mango salad made. Jubilee Chicken made. Chicken stock made. Eggs boiled. Carrots prepared for dinner. Ribs in the slow cooker. Not once did he say, “Rest. You have been on your feet too long.”

I am enraged. And I am tired of bird baths. Barely three weeks into this and I am miserable. 

Day 20 Getting A Bit Burnt Out

 

Photo is from Sunday, which was a 1500+ footstep day. 

Here it is, day 20 post-op, and I am getting burnt out on this stream of strangers (visiting nurse, physical therapist, occupational therapist) coming to the house. Everyday 1-2 of them are here. Then there is Friday. This week and last week we’re appointments with the surgeon to check on the incision. 

I just want one day of complete rest, physical and psychological. Every timethey arrive, I am filled with dread (about exposure, COVID or monkeypox. They’re all masked, and my UV HEPA air purifier is running before, during, and after the visit, but still I worry. 

The occupational therapist helped me install the mounting cleats for a grab bar for my shower, and he’ll be here tomorrow with the set goal of getting me to practice getting in and out of the tub so I can shower. 

Depending on how Friday’s appointment with the surgeon goes, perhaps Friday afternoon I could be taking my first hot shower since the early morning of July 14th, the day of the surgery. 

The physical therapist I prefer (there have been 2) will be here this afternoon, and he will no doubt have me down the stairs and outside for a walk, and I think once he leaves I’ll do my daily wash up. 

In the meantime I am conserving my energy and focus—that statement in itself is laughable if you think of what I have managed to do so far this morning after taking my meds (fill water filter; brew tea for ice tea; fill pressure cooker with stuff for chicken stock along with eggs and carrots, literally 3 different things cooking at once; set out ingredients for cornbread & a black bean mango salad; and plans on putting a rack of marinated ribs in the slow cooker for dinner tonight). But in this moment I am drinking coffee, blogging, while the house is redolent with the aroma of chicken stock pressure cooking away. 

It’s a good day. 

Making Good Use of My Time Away From The Salt Mine

I love hearing my own material come back to me. Most of the time it is philosophical shit & advice. And today I was reminded about this book I recommended & I’ll be using my recovery time planning my ultimate exit strategy. 

For 20 years it has been like mustering up the appetite to eat rotten meat. Each year bringing more & more changes & challenges. Most days I’d sit on my cubicle silently sobbing. Nearly 29 months of COVID have compounded all that with the prevailing awareness I am not safe. And for a person like me, who never felt truly safe from early childhood right on through the day I met Maharajah (32 years), vulnerability & insecurity are big issues for me. 

In the last 7 months I tried therapy (again!), and anti-anxiety & anti-depressants (again!), and zero return on that investment of time & money. I can neither meditate nor medicate my way out of a shitty job & an existential crisis.

Prior to my surgery 16 days ago, without exaggeration, each day would start with my first disappointing thoughts being “oh fuck, I didn’t die in my sleep,” before my feet even hit the floor.

After day 5 post-op, there has been a shift in my outlook. (And no it isn’t the vicodin—which I am happy to report, I am no longer taking!) NOW, my first thoughts each day are now, “I can’t wait to see how much more I improved & how much better I feel after sleeping last night.”

15 Years ago I had a “5 year plan, where I’d go out in maternity leave, then redirect myself & find a new job. Well, that never happened. My salary is a trap, no one wants to hire me at a lesser salary presuming I’d be a flight risk & leave first chance I could for higher pay.

There is also the issue of self-sabotage during interviews too, and not really knowing how to market myself, as well as the possibility of an as yet undiagnosed personality or social disorder that might be impeding my ability to find alternate work.

All I know is after 20 yrs I believe I deserve better than anxiety attacks, sobbing at my desk & a raging case of imposter syndrome. I hope by Sept. 2023–or sooner to be out of there. Bottom line: I don’t feel safe & I’m tired of feeling as if *I* am a problem.

Day 16 Microscopic Improvements Each Day

Before the surgery, I would wake up and my first thought before my feet hit the floor would be, “oh fuck i didn’t die in my sleep.” 

I have noticed a shift in my mindset, and now my first thought is, “let’s see how much I improved during my sleep.”

Yesterday was my 2 week post-op appointment with the surgeon. 

Appt was late. Everything good. He did exactly as I thought he would: put a steri-strip butterfly at the top of the incision and a silver bandage. 

I have to return next week for him to inspect the incision, just as I suspected the top of the incision pulled open. 

Got an order for outpatient PT. tbh I am not looking forward to that. 

I got cleared to resume chiropractic & acupuncture. I will be on Xarelto (the blood thinner) another 3 weeks. 

Regarding how I am feeling right this moment: exhausted. 

By the time I was done with the x-ray and in waiting room to see surgeon, I had already banged out 1,100 footsteps. So I was fairly wiped out at that point. 

We ordered & picked up our lunch and just sat in the parking lot eating it as we both were famished. We wolfed it down happily. 

Then we headed to Wegmans for a curbside pick up of groceries, then back home, and surprisingly I did not start napping immediately. 

This weekend’s project will be installing a grab bar in the shower. We also managed to go to our his and hers acupuncture which was on the books for weeks. Glad to do something familiar and routine and so glad to see our acupuncturist. 

Monday is hopefully the final appointment with the visiting nurse. And no doubt there will be another visit by either/or/both, the PT & OT.

I need to schedule some appointments for outpatient PT (ugh!). And in all likelihood the follow up appointment with the surgeon will be Friday so he can inspect the incision. 

I dare to hope that by the end of next week I will be able to be stable enough & get the green light to finally take a hot shower. 

Day 14

PT was here super early, messing up my personal schedule. I had to adapt, to make sure I saw the PT again before tomorrow’s follow up appointment. 

I went down my stairs and managed 300 footsteps out to the parking lot, and back. Then some stretching & range of motion stuff (ouch!) leaving me exhausted. 

Tonight I will shampoo and do a thorough washing up. Tomorrow the OT (occupational therapist) shows up before I leave for my appointment with the surgeon. Let’s see what he says about my incision—I suspect a couple butterflies will be added. 

Next concern: This will be the first outing since I returned home the day after surgery—where will we pick up lunch?

2022 Summer of Self Care

So I am out on medical leave until end of August & will be telecommuting until mid-October. 

In addition to getting my hip replaced this month: 

In August I have a trifecta of appointments: See a neuro for an EMG for my shoulder; psych eval to finally get a proper diagnosis of which  anxiety or depression disorder I have & get screened for autism. I hope the latter will be illuminating; and my annual physical with my GP.  

September the only thing I have scheduled is my regular appointment with my nephrologist—and depending on how immobile I am and how I feel,  I might try to schedule an appointment with my cardiologist too. 

October I might arrange both, my annual appointment with my ENT & see the otolaryngologist to get my thyroid nodule drained again. 

Before I know it, I’ll be back in the office; however, I would be lying if I said I have not been wishing and hoping and employing a lot of fantasy thinking regarding just cashing it all in and retiring. 

I need to figure out a way to finally gnaw my arm off to get out of this bear trap I have been in for the last 20 years. 

Day 13: My Old Nemesis—STAIRS!

Just like Po in Kung Fu Panda, “Ah, my old nemesis! STAIRS!” Today was the first time since my surgery (13 days ago) where I descended & ascended the 15 stairs to my home. It was bound to happen, as my two week follow up appointment is two days from now, and my visiting PT suggested we try it right before they left. 

13 down and 13 up, and now I am exhausted. 

Additionally, I’m pretty disappointed with the visiting LPN’s ability to dress my incision and stitches. The first dressing she put on was on these 3 strange stitches no where near my incision on the glute medius. Within 4 hours that fell off. The second dressing was at the top of my incision, and I went through my “morning ablutions,” only to see that despite her telling me otherwise, the gauze stuck to the top of my incision, which no doubt will be getting a butterfly or two when i see the surgeon on Friday. 

I was stuck standing for about an hour, between washing up in anticipation for the PT to arrive, and when Maharajah returned home after a nice outing for himself. I couldn’t remove the gauze as it dangled from the top of the incision and the location was so awkward I couldn’t reach it myself to cut off what I could. 

When Maharajah arrived, he cut off what he could, and I slathered a non-stick telfa with neosporin and taped the shebang over the top of the incision. 

IDK, basic wound care should be pretty standard for a visiting LPN—shouldn't it? 36 years ago when I was in basic training, we did an entire training module on first aid and battlefield wound dressing. Not to sound haughty, but imho I do a better job, and would have, if I had eyes in the back of my head. 

TBH, if I were able to have dressed my own wounds, i think I’d be better off by now. Meanwhile the top of my incision still seeps a bit. I will just keep everything clean and dry until i see the surgeon on Friday. 

Day 9: Shark Bite

Nothing new or earth shattering to report; however, I have decided to call my gnarly incision my “shark bite.” 

Day 8, New Hip Double Dose of Cake

So far so good, I guess. 

The nurse has been here 2x—and is expected today as well. She changed out my surgical dressing. My incision is 17 cm long and appears to be healing up fine—no oozing or draining, and the only swelling I have has been isolated to the hip itself. 

Physical therapist has been here 2x and I am uncertain if she is to arrive today. I hope she doesn’t come today, I have been up and about. I even made myself some breakfast. 

Yesterday was Maharajah’s birthday, and though I had to break up the task into mini-tasks to accomplish it, I made cup cakes to celebrate his day (and for him to share with his mall walkers group today. 

Day 6, New Hip

The visiting nurse just left. She changed the dressing on the incision—the incision is 17 cm long and so far—so good. 

Now I sit for the physical therapist. I am not sure what benefit I am getting out of these visits. She gave me this photocopy which looks like an antique. It looks like it originally was a mimeograph which has been photocopied repeatedly. 

I start & end each day with a vicodin, so my ability to focus on reading or fine details is pretty much shot-to-shit. And looking at this piss-poor quality photocopy makes me wonder how difficult it is for visually impaired folks to read & process it. 

Hell. I will be 54 next month, and I am in awe of 70-80 year olds who undergo this procedure. Make no mistake! Just because they get you up and walking right away and discharge you pretty damned quickly, this is a major undertaking. I can totally understand how some folks just give up after having a hip replacement. 

Also—I feel that the expectation that patients are able to maneuver in and out of bed immediately after surgery is greatly over estimated. For myself, I found it took me by day 5 post-op to do it without additional assistance. It is super unpleasant and hard work, and couple that with pain, discomfort, and my body still processing the trauma from surgery & the prosthetic implant—it is not for the weak. 

We have created our own schedule for meds. I start & end each day with a vicodin, then 500 mg extra strength acetaminophen every 4 hours. Maharajah gives me my morning vicodin when he gets up, which is 3 hours before I decide to get out of bed. So far this schedule seems to work. 

Anyway—behold the butt pic showing off the incision—as well as the poor quality photocopy I mentioned. Now, I sit sipping coffee waiting for the PT, and then a well deserved nap when they leave. 

Day Four, New Hip

Thursday was the surgery—you would think that was the worst day. Nope. Yesterday was. They released me Friday, so yesterday/Saturday was the worst—although today I am experiencing a moderate amount of pain—bordering on agony. 

Last night I put a trash bag under my bum when i got on bed, hoping it would help me scoot myself off my bed. It helped. 

Additionally, when Maharajah got up before me, he gave me a tylenol to prime me for when I wanted to get out of bed. I am still trying to figure out when is the optimal time to take the vicodin vs tylenol. I’m not ashamed to say some of the pain has been intense enough to bring me to tears. 

I managed to get out of bed with a minimum of discomfort & difficulty, and I thought today was going to be different than yesterday regarding pain, but it is pretty intense. 

500 mg Tylenol around 6 am, and by 8 am I popped a vicodin & have an ice pack on my thigh/hip area. So I guess it is just a waiting game at this point. 

So I had a hip replacemrnt

So far, I am two days out from a total hip replacement. This is the second surgery I have had in my attempts to not become my mom, and have a different path in my life—the first surgery was my gastric bypass 11 years ago. 

So far it has been a really amazing process to go through. 

Two days ago, zi woke at 4:30, to leave by 5:30, to arrive for check in at 6:30, for - 9 am surgery. By 10 am they had in the OR prepped for surgery. By 1 pm I was in recovery. 2 pm I was in my room? and by 6 pm they had ne up on my feet (I walked 100 feet at that time). Just—wow!

Interesting tidbit about my surgery: the surgeon said the spot in my socket that was impacted was different than for other people. My issue was on the side, not up too, and apparently the bone looked like it was starting to get necrotic. 

Yesterday I met & exceeded all benchmarks & was discharged close to 12 noon and I was home by 1 pm. All was fine yesterday. 

Today is day #2, and I awoke with a lot of breakthrough pain, and i struggled to get out of bed, and popped my first vicodin by 9 am. 

Visiting nurse arrived today and there isn’t much to say about that. Two days from now, the occupational therapist shows up, and I guess the work begins. 

In the meantime, I just want to rest. 

Caftans: My Cloaks of Invisibility

I'm always amazed and especially touched when friends truly hear what I say, process it, internalize it, relate to it, and repeat it back to me. It's very satisfying and very validating.

This morning my co-worker of 20 years repeated back to me about how she's starting to see what I said is true--how after a certain age we become invisible. Granted, she's about 7 years younger than I am, but still she's starting to get a sense and a handle on what I said.

We complimented each other on our ensembles today, and after 20 years of togetherness, she and I have found we are dressing similarly these days. Yesterday was all black, and today is a splash of colors--we both are wearing multicolored garments with a lot of yellow and orange in it today. I said, "I chose this outfit because #1 it is clean and readily available; and #2. It doesn't make me look or feel fat." 

She then went on to say how she's doing what I have done, and came to the conclusion that comfort above all else is more important. She's not wearing stilettos anymore, and is choosing to wear what she wants. 

I was telling her about Imani Gandy, who I follow on twitter, and how Imani got well into what we'll call "the caftan life," and I have to say, I'm emulating that this year. So far, I've bought three caftans, and I have taken to swanning about my condo wearing them, and I hope one day to be swanning about a cruise ship wearing them too, with cute sandals and maybe some big chunky statement jewelry in primary tones, too.  Perhaps matching turbans are not far behind?

My coworker and I both compared notes about what I said, regarding our invisibility. While on the surface, some folks might say it is a negative statement on women aging; whereas, I will say the direct opposite: IT IS FREEING. It is freeing to wear what I want because it's comfortable or it makes ME happy. It's freeing not to have to consider if what I am wearing or how I appear might attract the attention of a romantic partner. 

It's freeing to be invisible and not have unwanted attention too. It's freeing to walk into the office and realize halfway through the day that my shirt was put on inside out and not one soul informed me of such. It's freeing to realize I neglected to pluck a chin hair or I might have a blemish on my face. The only one who sees it is me, the only one who matters is ME. 

Why did it take nearly 54 years for me to finally come to this realization?

My Existential Crisis

It's an understatement to say the last two years have been challenging. Quite frankly, I don't know how I'm surviving it at all. 2019 had its own series of challenges, and yet as the saying goes,  "fall down seven times, get up eight." And then 2020 proved that 2019 was merely child's play.

The austerities & precautions & isolation I've endured because of the pandemic (plus avoiding people who are very clearly deluded and recklessly stupid), grief over mom's death, which has unearthed yet another layer of grief over dad's death, my own health crisis due to the vaccine, and last but not least, MENOPAUSE to round out things for good measure. 

If need be, I can continue on this current path for a while more, but not sure how much more, as the isolation IS taking its toll on my emotional health. 

And when I say "isolation,"really, it's just me limiting exposure to friends & family who seem hell bent on either/or catching COVID or transmitting it, all the while claiming they're taking precautions, despite the fact they very clearly are NOT taking precautions: i.e. my sister attending super spreader events without wearing a mask; my aunt & uncle taking a cruise, then later a trip to Ireland; and a friend taking a cruise (and sharing a cabin with a stranger), then later taking a trip to Peru, a country where they don't have vaccines readily available like here in the USA; or my niece who has ONE KIDNEY deciding she's going to Florida for spring break. But whatever, fuck it, right? I can't live other people's lives, and they're just making choices I wouldn't. Yet, I resent being put in the position to "give face" like a give a shit if/when they test positive for this pernicious virus. 

Anyway. Yeah. There's a lot of seething resentment on my end. Not even jealousy. Just resentful that friends and family cannot be trusted to be careful, and then I'm cast as being antisocial because I refuse to put myself in a position where I might catch this virus. 

A byproduct of the isolation is feeling forsaken by friends and family. And the existential crisis of being aware that mom's gone, and mom was the glue that kept everyone in her orbit, and by extension, my orbit too.

I'm feeling abandoned, and it's also dredging up to the surface every friend or family member that's disgusted, disappointed, and dropped me. And in the end, I guess I should appreciate they're not actively in my life anymore, as they all, in the end, only used me for their own personal gain.

I think of my friend H., who I thought we were great friends going back to high school, and who not that long ago (maybe it IS that long ago--5 years +/-?) I made her a sweater I never saw her wear. Or M., who I haven't seen since my first wedding in 1991 and who consistently flaked out on every time we planned to meet in NYC (who, I might add, tried to shake me down for one of the 3 precious N95s I found in my dry wall repair supplies at the start of the pandemic). I think of my best childhood friend J., who just disappeared into the ether it seems. Countless cousins of mine, I've tried to contact, and well it's not important to them--I'm especially sad about mom's cousin B., who I always thought I was close to, who decided when dad died she wasn't going to "come back east for sad stuff anymore," and the last time she did come back east for a little get together at mom's I declined as I was still pretty chapped about it. 

I think of now former friends/co-irker or Sharlett, who, in the end didn't value me, and was a parasite who took what she could could from me, and when I dared to be bold enough to speak out about how she was treating me, she couldn't handle the confrontation and dumped me. And well, Brenda? She was a parasite as well, and clearly we have philosophically opposite ideas of what friendships are, and she at least owned up to the fact she was jealous of me (which accomplished nothing for me personally!) and who truly surprised me with her lack of empathy and surprised me with her capacity for careless cruelty.

I think of another person who I thought was a friend, T., who, the very day I was processing the fact that ten years worth of work was for naught and that I wouldn't be able to have a kid of my own, her response when she finally ran out of give-a-fuck was to say, "The world is overpopulated enough as it is." 

Then there are the friends who I've lost because of politics.

And lastly, there's my sister, who I reconciled with in 2017, but the  more I think on that, the more I realize that, too, was a means to an end for her. And rather than put any energy or focus into fostering our relationship, she's found Jesus (again), and would rather have yet another church organization exploit her Type A go-getter personality. Pretty much strangers are more important than I am. 

I shouldn't waste more time on this stuff, which I view as abandonments or losses, or something else which I have yet to identify. But there's something there that I just can't seem to let go. 

A good practice I've been doing these days is when I start thinking about each of these people, I quickly revert to CBT training and remind myself not to believe these distortions and that for every one of these people who have hurt me or dumped me, I have just as many (if not, more) people who want to be in my life.

I wish I weren't so highly sensitive. I wish that the abundance of friends was enough to wash away all the hurt feelings, and wash away the tears that I still cry about it all. 

And if all the tears are driven by menopause, I guess it'll be another 5-10 years until that well dries up. I just don't want to waste one more moment than is necessary crying tears for people that just don't matter anymore. 

Does any of this make sense? There's just so much overlap right now with my abandonment issues, grief (death IS the final abandonment), and menopause. It's really a devil's cocktail, and pretty difficult to navigate.  

To Be Crossposted Elsewhere

It's been two years and two weeks since mom died, and I'm still unpacking everything. And much like where we are in the pandemic--we're not at the beginning, and we're not at the end, we're at the beginning of the end. And I'm at the beginning of the end of that horrible initial phase of grieving.

Everything happened so quick. From the moment mom was officially notified that the virus was in the nursing home, then she was sedated before I could say my final goodbye, and then roughly 10 days of radio silence, her borked out of her mind, shallow breathing and sitting in her own filth, neglected by the people who were tasked with caring for her, until the dreaded, inevitable call came through that she was gone.

I have been stuck in an existential feedback loop, truly sad that I wasn't able to talk to her. I wasted too much time trying to advocate for her, when I should have been talking more to her. Then she was gone. I thought I was prepared for it. I thought I was emotionally detached enough. Trust me, nothing prepared me for what I've been experiencing.

Last night, I watched the second-to-the-last episode of This Is Us. This was a show she'd probably have thoroughly enjoyed. The final episodes are devoted to the ultimate passing of the mother, Rebecca. The scenes of her transitioning from being alive to being dead involves her character on a train, encountering people who were significant in her life. Rebecca is young and vibrant, and though she cannot see the people saying their goodbyes to her, she can hear their voices as if they were in another room. 

As I had hoped while watching this episode, I had hoped I'd gain something catartic and useful regarding the death of my own mom, since I wasn't able to be there with her. And fortunately, I had that catharsis.

In early 2014, mom almost died of a ruptured gallbladder. And as is the case with most of mom's health crises, they always held off on surgery until she was at death's door, because the surgery itself could have killed her. They waited until she was in sepsis. 

I remember showing up at the hospital and she was in post-op recovery, totally out of it, and we weren't convinced she would pull through. I crouched down and whispered in her ear, "Mom. It's me. I love you. I still need you. I still need my mom. But if you need to go--go. Don't stay for me. I love you."

Coincidentally, she rallied, and managed to live another 6 years after. This was beginning of 2014, and by winter holidays 2014, she had caused a rift between me and my sister, which caused me to stop going to family gatherings as I was avoiding my sister. 

People are complicated; life is messy. 

Life is complicated; people are messy.

The universe saw fit to give her nearly 6 more years, and yet, because of her own words and deeds, it threw a monkey wrench into how that precious remaining time was spent. No matter how much time we think we have, it's never enough. I wish I were more prescient & present.

From Xmas 2014 until July 2019, I avoided all family gatherings. I'd visit mom on Columbus Day, or a week before/after her birthday or Mother's Day. And sadly, Mother's Day 2019, the universe fucked me. I had an issue with the lock on the front door to my home, and despite the car loaded up with gear and food for a weekend at mom's, I had to stay home and deal with a locksmith, as Maharajah was in the UK on business. 

Life is what happens when you're busy making plans. 

Man makes plans, and God says "HAHA!"

Before I knew it, July 2017 she took a series of tumbles at home, which resulted in her deciding to stay in the nursing home. Columbus Day 2017 was spent helping my sister empty out the house and prepare it for sale. I didn't visit mom that time because I was filthy and exhausted and angry--angry at her, and angry at my useless brother. 

Winter holidays 2017 was spent heading to Singapore for a cruise, and dispatching the last of dad's cremated remains at the Equator January 3, 2018--the start of the 10th calendar year since his death. November 2018 we headed to India for the wedding of a cousin. I think I might have seen my mom one other time, perhaps Columbus Day 2018 which was a thankless visit. 

My final visit with her was December 2019, when I visited and dropped off a bag of treats for the holiday. It was a good visit. I stayed with her for two hours, of nonstop chatter. It was a good visit.

And then in mid-April 2020, my last chat with her, she was exhausted, and was "presumptive positive" with COVID. Despite the fact she claimed she was feeling better--I think that might have been the ativan talking. My last good bye was what I'd call an "every day" type of goodbye. Unlike all other times, I concluded the call with an "I love you," which was out of character for me. I spent too much time being angry with her, and too much time waiting for an apology or a true reconciliation that never happened. The best I could muster was a silent resignation and granting her or the situation amnesty. I always wished things were different.

For two years I've grappled with the finality of all this. I've grappled with the fact she was depressed for possibly her entire life, and intensified immensely after the passing of my dad in 2008, and her dad (her abuser) in 2012. 

I knew for a long time she didn't want to be here. I remember in 2008 when dad actually survived the surgery (which there was only a 10% of survival), her response wasn't a THANK GOD!, rather, her first words here, "I guess he forgot what a shitty world this is."

For two years, I've tried to find some solace or greater meaning in her death, that she got what she wanted--to cease to exist. Sometimes I feel that way myself, but that's just the surface shit--the reality is, I want to cease suffering. And isn't that exactly what death is? The discontinuance of suffering?

So while watching This Is Us last night, I was reminded that I did say my final goodbye (albeit in 2014). I want to think there was some greater meaning to me thinking upon that last night watching This Is Us. I shouldn't quibble over whether I said it in 2014 when her death seemed to be imminent but wasn't. Perhaps this is my subconscious self telling me to be kind to myself. That it doesn't matter when I said it, but the fact remains I said it at all.

55 Days And Counting

So it's 55 days (or 54 days "and a wake up" as we used to say in the military) until my dodgey hip is hacksawed out of me. I'm excited at the idea of removing this thing which has caused me easily 20 years worth of pain and discomfort, which over the last two years has led to a marked decrease in my stamina and my ability to do the things I want to do. Additionally, I'm excited about the idea that for the first time in my life, my legs will both be the same length. 

Unlike other medical things in my life, I refuse to allow myself to do a nose dive down a series of rabbit holes regarding the surgeon, as well as the procedure itself. It's bad enough I know what I know, but glad I'll be knocked out while they do it.

I've lulled myself into a sense of security (false or not) that the pain I'll endure post-op isn't going to be worse than what I'm living with now.

In fact, I'm not even thinking about it at all. The only things I am concerning myself with involves the concern of whether I'll catch COVID while in the hospital (especially while I'm unmasked for the anesthesia), and I'm more worried about how will I use the toilet or shower afterwards. I'm sure I could do "whore baths" for 1-2 weeks if I truly need to, but my surgery will be mid July, and I'd rather not forego full showers at all.

Additionally, I've been weaned off the Wellbutrin as I wasn't convinced it was helping me as I wanted it to help me, though Maharajah said it was helping me, and my primary care doc (who prescribed it) thought it was meeting her benchmarks for me. I just didn't feel it. And every time I had a weird tingle in my skull I kept thinking, "is this when the seizure finally will happen?"

So I'm off the junk. And I also canned my therapist who I was seeing for roughly the same time frame I was on the Wellbutrin too. I'd say 11 weeks was ample time to suss out whether this person was useful. And sad to say, he wasn't. 

I'm not a full on doofus. I know what I need to do. I just need HELP. I need someone, an expert, to tell me or show me HOW to do what I need to do. I don't need to waste one more moment with someone who is just circling the drain overstating the obvious and not providing anything useful--in addition to what I'll dub "toxic positivitiy." 

Last week I found myself with the first UTI in decades (if I've ever had one before at all), and couldn't see my primary care doc, and saw one of her associates. He was a pleasant surprise. He examined me and had me give a sample to be tested, wrote me an Rx for an atbx, then I asked about weaning off Wellbutrin, which he then wrote another Rx for 15 lower dose tablets and gave instructions how to take them. And I asked if he knew of any neuropsychologists nearby that I could see, and he thoroughly surprised me as he knew of someone, wrote me a referral, and I was on my way.

I called the neuropsychology practice and there's a 2-3 month backlog, so it won't be until mid July or August before I get in for an evaluation, but at least I started the process.

Hurry up and wait. Lots of ducks being set in a row, for a lot of progress and action in the coming months.

Feelings... Whoah oh oh oh... Feelings

 Feelings....

On the very night my mom died, I was watching a documentary about Darrell Hammond, and there was a line he said which truly resonated with me, something to the effect of how he was expected/demanded to participate in his own abuse (by his mother) by remaining silent. Oh how familiar that statement is.

Yesterday I read another line by someone else in regards to narcissistic parents not allowing us to articulate thoughts or feelings,nor let us have the freedom to have an interior life. And again, my mind was blown. 

I knew at a very early age, not to trust my mother. I had been menstruating for two years in secret because I knew she would tell everyone my private business the first chance she got when she found out--AND I WAS CORRECT.

I never allowed myself to write in a diary or a journal--and I would receive plenty of new journals as gifts. I never allowed myself to write in a journal, as I knew I wasn't even entitled to my private thoughts, and I didn't trust that my inner-most thoughts would remain private. 

So it's no wonder I struggle in therapeutic settings trying to identify what I am feeling and expand on that. I went nearly a half century of my life suffering in silence, an unwilling participant in the abuse cycle, remaining silent--keeping my thoughts, worries, feelings all to myself because the adults in my life (particularly my mother, my primary care giver) were incapable of listening and absorbing all that, and certainly lacked the ability to provide any guidance on how to handle my emotions in a healthy, constructive way.

For the last two years, my emotions have pretty much run amok. I've been feeling every possible negative feeling all at once and have been in a constant state of being overwhelmed and outraged. And the only thing that has helped even a little bit has been a breathing meditation I've been trying to do on a regular basis. This guided breathing meditation has helped me at least ORGANIZE those emotions--not process them, but at least organize them so that I am not feeling all of them all at once. 

To be honest, I doubt I'll ever be able to process them. That would require vulnerability I am unable to muster up. A half century of this bullshit has proven to me that vulnerability only = more pain. And I'd rather feel nothing at all, than feel one more moment of pain.