It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since I thought I might be dying. Three weeks since the night I was woken at 2am by my son asking to breastfeed, only to feel a searing pain through my left shoulder and arm. A pain that felt terribly wrong, forcing me out of the bed, shoving my son into my husband’s arms, exclaiming that I might pass out, staggering to the freezer for an ice pack, and feeling my body stop working. Feeling the heavy scrape of my knee against the hardwood as I suddenly found myself on the floor, and then, after a blackout, pulling myself up, with hands on the oven door for balance.
Staggering back to the freezer, I fumbled around and found the ice pack I had been looking for, and stumbled to the couch to lie down. I was writhing in pain and unsure of what to do. My husband was trying to quiet down our son, who must have known something was amiss and was whimpering.
I was losing feeling in my left arm. My left shoulder felt as though an ice pick was being rammed into the top of it, but my entire arm was tingling. It dawned on me that I might be having a stroke or a heart attack. I yelled for my husband; I don’t think he had heard me fall down as I passed out, and so he didn’t yet understand the seriousness of the situation. I was rapidly losing feeling in my right arm too, and I was shaking uncontrollably. He called 9-1-1 and watched me helplessly, with our son in his arms, as my hands began to claw and I started losing feeling in my face as well.
Turns out, I was dealing with a pinched nerve in one of my upper vertebrae, and part of my reaction was classic, hardcore hyperventilation. The kind that actually truly makes you think you’re dying.
Of course, it took a full night in the ER with a rather shaky diagnosis and subsequent release the next morning, followed by a second trip to the ER the following night, thanks to worsening symptoms, to come to that conclusion. By the end of my second hospital visit, the pain was so bad that they had dosed me with two oxycodone, ibuprofen, injected muscle relaxants, and an IV of hydromorphone. I was sent home so high, I could barely walk.
I was also sent home with a very serious warning from the ER doctor: get off the heavy painkillers as soon as possible. They were highly addictive, and to go down that road would not be good. Being the type of person who avoids any and all medication if she can, I nodded vigorously.
Then, I had my first night at home, with painkillers that wore off in the middle of the night. I woke at 3am and took the bare minimum, thinking it would work and then I would return to bed, only it didn’t work. It hurt to sit. It hurt to lie down. It hurt to stand. And, even after an hour, it didn’t get better. So I paced. I paced back and forth, in front of my medication, counting down the minutes until I could take more. Wondering if I could take one early, but being afraid to give in already. But that pain was driving its way into my soul, even on that first night. At one point, I found myself looking at one of our chef’s knives, not thinking clearly at all, but wondering what I might do with it to ease the pain. Or at least change it.
I scared myself, in that moment. I have never wanted to end my life, or harm myself. The pain, though. The pain had me foggy-brained and looking for any way out, especially in that darkest hour when I wondered if this would be something I had to deal with for the rest of my life.
It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of waking up before dawn every day with throbbing, stabbing pain in my shoulder, down my arm and into my wrist. Three weeks of shoving pain meds and anti-inflammatories into my mouth after stumbling out of bed, praying they’ll work sooner this time. Knowing they won’t. Knowing I have hours before the pain will subside, and that it will come tearing back into my body at some point that afternoon. Of holding off on the opiates for as long as I can stand. Of trying to self-medicate with wine, failing, and then needing to wait in pain anyway to take my next dose.
Three weeks. Three weeks of not being able to lift my children. Of snapping at them when they nudge the shoulder that’s in so much pain still, and feeling like a terrible parent for not wanting to take them anywhere, because I can’t lift them into their car seats or push a stroller without feeling pain for the rest of the day. Three weeks of taking heavy hitting drugs daily, with no end in sight. Three weeks of physiotherapy that has improved mobility, but not pain.
And now, my doctor wants me to take more drugs. Scarier drugs. Me, the girl who had a home birth on her pull-out couch, using arnica as her primary pain reliever. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I was a zombie when I took the drugs, but now I notice I’m not. My body is adapting, finding a bit more of the high. I’m out of my mind with pain, when I don’t take those drugs, though.
Three weeks of smiling weakly when someone asks how I’m doing, is the pain getting better, am I managing okay. Trying not to come across as whiny or overly negative, but afraid of being honest. Because no one really wants to know how bad it is. Of trying to avoid zealous friends who want to suggest healing modalities that I can’t imagine will actually help. Of feeling like I need to apologize for not trying absolutely everything. Of feeling like a fraud for having to take all of these awful pills to get through my day.
Three weeks. It doesn’t sound very long, does it? It feels like an eternity.