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.

Progress Takes Many Forms

Even choosing to discontinue therapy can be progress. Progress in-so-far as I don't want to waste one more moment with a therapist who doesn't specialize in the issues with which I need help: schema therapy (with associated self esteem issues); rumination therapy; narcissistic abuse recovery; and grief therapy.

For eleven weeks I've spun my wheels in a futile attempt to gain anything beneficial from my therapist Stephen, who insisted being despondent was a choice, and telling me to put a positive spin on things, and to try to "trap and release" the negative intrusive thoughts WITHOUT TELLING ME HOW TO DO THAT.  Because, HELLO! I am talking to a therapist for tools or strategies to do exactly that, stop the negative intrusive thoughts!

To be blunt, I've gotten more out of doing this guided breathing meditation which my acupuncturist suggested to me (three years ago--but hey, it takes me a while before I do anything). I am two weeks into doing it (and haven't done it consistently every day for the second week, mind you) and already it has quieted the physical/physiological part, wherein I was suffering debilitating, persistent, daily sobbing jags which weren't cathartic and left me emotionally and physically spent.

So, last night the first thing I did was left a vm for a neuropsychologist with whom I spoke about 7-10 days ago asking info about becoming a new patient. I left a vm for more information, as she's out of network and I'd have to pay out of pocket. And the last thing I did before leaving my office for the day was contacting the office of the psychology practice where my therapist works, and simply stated I wanted to discontinue sessions.

So now I wait for the doc to call me in return. And if the stars don't line up with this doc, there is always a narcissistic abuse life coach I will probably contact in regards to private coaching sessions. I just want to move forward and stay afloat.

Another Update, 4/19/2022

Yet another month slips by; and yet, full of activity.

Let's see, I'm now three months into taking Wellbutrin, and three months into yet another round of talk/psychotherapy with yet another therapist, and to be honest, neither have been much help. I have gotten more benefit out of doing a guided breathing meditation--and full disclosure that was two weeks ago I started that, and I haven't been consistent in the last five days, but be that as it may, I still got more benefit out of it than Rx or therapy. 

I am technically ELEVEN weeks into therapy, and for the last four sessions I have asked myself "why are we doing this? It isn't helpful."

For someone such as myself, who has endured easily a half century of narcissistic abuse (as well as the resulting byproducts of self esteem issues, rumination, learned helplessness, and anxiety attacks), a good starting point of therapy that would be USEFUL *IS NOT* telling me to re-frame things in a positive spin or try to catch & release the negative thoughts--AS IF I have not tried doing so.

I have identified BOTH, what I don't want as well as what I *DO* want from therapy, and right now, the current therapist is what I do not want. What I *DO* want is schema therapy, grief therapy, as well as to be evaluated for other issues that haven't been identified thus far (perhaps autism? attention deficit disorder, etc), because, to be honest and fair, I cannot fix what's broke unless or until we identify what exactly it is that's in need of repair and/or attention. Telling me it's a choice to be depressed or anxious isn't helpful in the least bit.

And in other news...

I fell down yet another rabbit hole regarding the results of my last lab report, which then necessitated my nephrologist to re-run all those tests, plus run additional tests to rule out anything that might have caused the "weirdness" in the dodgey lab tests from Quest. For a while there it was upsetting to think I might have cold agglutination disease or autoimmune hemolytic anemia. In the end, Quest didn't maintain proper temperature when they spun out my blood sample or half assed something else, which caused "RBC agglutination present" on my last lab report--something I've never seen on any of my labs.

On an upnote, my BP was good (I popped a GABA 20 minutes before the appointment to cut down on the "white coat syndrome" anxiety), and I was told my proteinuria has improved. I don't know how to interpret the lab reports on this, as it's about ratios rather than the numbers alone; however, my numbers have gone from 1400-1600 down to about 400. I need to find out around what date did the numbers start to improve--I was remiss in asking during the appointment, as I was too fixated on the agglutination issue, and of course, my Word document with eight bullet points, talking points for the doc, and he even added additional points of discussion. Good appointment all in all.

So now for the main event, and talk about "burying the lede!" I am going to get one of my hips replaced come mid-summer. Hopefully the latest variant or mutation of COVID won't be surging or the surge will be over by then. Last thing I want to do is get my hip replaced, then come home with COVID.

I am looking forward to the potential of my pain decreasing, my mobility increasing, my sleep improving, and by extension of all three, I am hoping my mood will improve as well.

Maharajah went away on business, and while he was away, I reverted back to a habit I had in "The Beforetimes," where I'd work on household projects, and take advantage of not having an anxious audience while I tear apart the condo in doing so.

The last time I had household projects was in October 2019. I painted our bedroom. I left the cans of paint and drop cloth where they were, thinking "I'll finish up tomorrow." After nearly three years, those cans of paint and drop cloth have remained where they sat. I rearranged the bedroom an did a nice deep cleaning of the room, as well as puttered about with a lot of little projects, so little that they aren't noticeable at a casual glance. I took hot baths, I slept pretty good. And soon enough he was home.

He came home last Friday night, and he has been isolating in the spare bedroom. Last night was "day 3," and he took an at home COVID test, which came back negative. But I don't trust the tests--especially since the Omicron has about 37 different variations to the spike protein and that's what the tests TEST, the presence of the spike protein. So he'll test again tomorrow night, and if the test comes back negative again, I guess I'll have to acquiesce and trust the result.

The last two years have been so detrimental to my physical and emotional health. It's undone easily 10 years of hard work. The pandemic, mom dying, and seeing just how truly awful too many people are, has really made me regress to a time in my life when I was terrified and distrustful of everyone--including people I formerly loved and or respected. 

I feel as if I were starting from "Square One" all over again. 

On top of all this, I am just barely beyond being a hermit. In some ways I feel as if time, life, and experiences are passing me by. I'm jealous and resentful of the cognitive dissonance people have in going on vacations, getting on airplanes, and eating indoors. I feel such a sense of abandonment that is sadly too familiar to me. 

I've reverted back to persistent, debilitating, daily sobbing jags as a result of everything I listed above (oh, plus menopause), and nothing has helped--see the first paragraph about Rx and therapy. That guided breathing meditation has been the only thing to interrupt the physiological shit which has kept me sobbing--sobbing the kind of primal sobs one sobs for a beloved friend or family member dying--only for me, my sobs aren't for grief over my mom dying, my sobs are for the death of the life I once had. 

The notion of things ever returning to "normal" again is so outside my ability to conceive or believe it. 

I'm amazed I was able to peck all this out without breaking down into an ocean of tears, but the only thing I *DO* believe in these days is the power of the guided breathing meditation. 

It took me ten years to sort out all my emotional garbage, put each item into a pile of its own, fold each item in half, then fourths, then eighths, and tuck that shit into a recess in my psyche where I don't access it every moment of every day.

The pandemic, mom dying, and just seeing an abundance of "Human's inhumanity to their fellow humans," and it caused all that hard work to just explode forth from its storage space in my psyche--and after two years of profound despair, I am now setting about putting everything back in order again. 

The work continues.

And so it goes

 It’s been three months since my last post. In that time I got put on xanax, and then Wellbutrin, then titrated up. I can’t tell if it is helping tbh. But I guess you cannot meditate or medicate away an existential crisis or nervous breakdown. It has been suggested I can get referred out to a psychiatrist for an evaluation, but tbh I have enough to deal with. 

I am about six weeks into psychotherapy, AGAIN, with a new therapist. I remain unconvinced it will help, but I try to keep myself open to the possibility of being surprised. Six weeks into this and I haven’t gotten any new tools or strategies. 

It has been 11 months (almost) since that first shot of Pfizer fucked me up. Eleven months later and my liver enzymes are finally back to normal. I stopped taking the alpha lipoic acid my former endocrinologist recommended. Finally that pesky issue where my gct, hgb, and rbc were elevated has resolved; however my GFR has dropped substantially. I have an appt with my nephrologist two weeks from now, so I am deferring my worry until then. 

But I do question what caused it to drop? The vax? Dropping ALA? Or, when I got so sick in April of last year, was it COVID? My PCR came back negative, but we didn’t think to get me tested for antigen or antibodies. I’ll never know. 

Two weeks ago I finally saw my gyno, and it looks like my body went into sudden menopause right after the first shot of Pfizer. Doc won’t say I am in menopause until it has been a full year without menses—so far it is 11 months. So this is just one more shitty thing for me to process & manage on top of everything else. And just like I said about an existential crisis or nervous breakdown, I cannot medicate or meditate myself out of this emotional tornado that menopause is adding to everything else. 

It would be interesting to test my cortisol levels—I am sure they are through the roof, with this unrelenting stress and outrage I have experienced for the last two solid years. 

I wanted to get a PRP shot in my right shoulder, but can’t do that until we get an MRI, and insurance won’t cover the MRI unless I go for PT. So I am in a PT holding pattern for 6 weeks until we can get the MRI and finally the PRP. 

This is from a now-seven year old injury, and my last physiatrist was more interested in keeping me in a cycle of trigger point injections followed by massages which the insurance did not cover, rather than healing my shoulder. And all the PT I did in 2016 for this did nothing, and now I am starting the process all over again with my current physiatrist. 

Tomorrow I have a consult with an orthopedic surgeon, as my physiatrist is referring me out for a hip replacement. The last two years. I had been avoiding grabbing onto railings as I was doing contact avoidance, and in doing so, I ground down the last bit of my cartilage and now it is bone on bone in my hip socket. 

The idea of having my hip joint removed it pretty serious imho, but the idea that it will help with my pain and mobility I can’t wait. I hope it is life changing. 

On my vision board I have my surgery pegged for July or August, after I am boostered in June. 

31 more days until the shitty two year mark, two years exactly to the day, when mom was notified the virus was in the nursing home. And from that date (April 9th), it’ll be another 32 days until the two year anniversary of mom’s death. 

As of today it has been 673 days since she died, terrified and alone. Again, I cannot medicate or meditate away the profound loneliness, and depression and homesickness I feel. It is surreal. This grief and sadness is affecting my health and I cannot seem to fight my way out of it, regardless of my best efforts.