BROKEN

This post was written in July of 2016. A lot has changed since then, but you will need this information before I can continue with the rest of the story:

I have essentially been stuck in a time bubble since a tragic event on May 11, 2013. Waiting, waiting, ever so impatiently to get SOME kind of settlement. I am living on credit cards. Disability check covers the bare essentials, that's all...even my drugs go on a credit card. It's bad. I would file for bankruptcy, but anything I get settlement-wise would then just go away. At minimum I had hoped to at least be able to cover the expenses I had incurred but who knows when that will be?

In the meantime, everyone is getting testy. Doctors haven't been paid in 3 years and they're pissed. I am sick of 29 cent mac & cheese and peanut butter on saltines. I look like something that just crawled out of Auschwitz. I have lost enough weight to make up an entirely new person. I had to buy pants and shirts because everything, every bit of clothing I had no longer fits -- it just hangs on me like a scarecrow. I am dodging collection phone calls. I stopped opening mail about 2 years ago because all it does is depress me.

What about the arm that is now rendered useless? What about my goddamned leg? I've been to 4 different orthopedic surgeons and nobody will touch the leg. I fucking BATTLED to save that leg once...and now that battle means nothing. I have a broken leg that will be permanently broken and disfigured. It doesn't even look like a human leg anymore.

The car I had been driving was entirely paid for -- in the clear and still had more than half of its warranty left. Gone, all gone in an instant. And now I'm in the hole for 8k for a replacement car that actually cost less than the car I was driving. It is just so WRONG and unfair. I'm pissed, depressed, sick and in even more pain than I was to begin with.

Meanwhile my hole gets deeper.

OWW MY SCREAMY HEART

Spent all day with the Heart doc. Left feeling crushed. They'll be calling me tomorrow to make test appointments. He suspects blockage in additional vessels. I can't breathe. I can't breathe because all the air has suddenly been sucked out of my world by the enormous vacuum called *bad news.* I have the misfortune of having shitty genes and an abundance of lipoprotein-a. I am about to crawl under the porch, taking my nitro pills with me. Nobody better get a stick and poke at me, because by God I just might snap.

OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS, ROUND 3

This morning bright and early I toddled off to Dr. Turban-wearer's office. I waited in the waiting room. I waited in the exam room. When he finally got to me he said straight away, "I am sending you back to your referring physician and releasing you. There is nothing I can do for you."

"Releasing me? After only one visit and only one drug?" I pleaded.  No response. "WTF is the matter with you?"

"There is nothing I can do to help you." He looked at the floor.

"So you're just giving up? You're not even going to try? What about the drugs I'm on now? Where am I supposed to get those? You know perfectly well a primary won't prescribe the narcotics I've been taking! What about my panic attacks? Where am I supposed to get Ativan, without which I will soon be hospital-bound?"

Without looking at me even once, he launched into preaching mode, "This is a pain you are just going to have to learn to live with. You have too many things wrong with you. Your heart, your back, your various injuries, your neuro-muscular issues...all of these are sources of pain and there is nothing I can do that will make it better. We all have to live with pain. For instance right now I have a headache and my hip hurts. See how I am standing?"

"I don't give a shit about your headache or your fucking hip. Take some aspirin and go see your referring physician."  I left.

I got into my car and sat in the parking lot for about 15 minutes just weeping. I have 24 days to find a drug source or I'm up shit creek. This pain is unendurable. Even with drugs it is barely manageable. I can't just *learn to live with it* since it affects every aspect of my life. It affects how I get out of bed, how I put on clothes, how I comb my hair, what I eat and how I eat it. Goddammit I can't even take a shower since each bead of water that falls on my skin feels like a dagger.

Sheer desperation has made me consider having mastectomies, wondering if I actually cut off my screamy boobs if they'll stop being so urgently screamy. On the other hand, if it's the nerve that is damaged, the nerve will still be there, and so will the pain. I can't win.

Suddenly it all becomes clear, and I understand it completely. This my friends, is exactly how heroin addicts get made -- out of sheer desperation.

OWW MY IMAGINARY BACON

I had high hopes for the drug, Lyrica. I took it for a total of two weeks. The first week I felt pretty good. The second week I started crying. Not just crying like my eyes were leaking, but crying as in sobbing and wailing in grief. I'm still not over it.

I called Dr. Turban-wearer's office to report my symptoms. After taking a ration of shit from his secretary, my phone call was returned later that day.  She had the gall to say to me, "Well, are you a patient of Dr. Turban-wearer's? I just don't know why you would be calling here to tell me you're having symptoms." I was stunned.  I said, "No, lady. I just picked a random phone number to call out of the phone book.  YES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I AM A PATIENT.  Do you have a pen in your hand? Yes? Great, write this down..."

Last night I dreamt I was eating a bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, of all things. I was crying while I was eating it. I woke up crying in actuality. This is how fuckered my brain has become in only two short weeks of Lyrica. I can't sleep worth a damn. Not sleeping is nothing new, but I certainly don't need dreams that make me cry when I finally do manage to fall into a deep enough sleep to conjure up a dream.

If you engage me in conversation, you might not get answers you're expecting. Consider this fair warning: I am not my usual "ray of sunshine" self. The fact that I can recognize that I am slightly off is a good thing, I suppose. Now, I'm just hoping it passes quickly. I don't need to be a total uber-depressed nutjob in addition to my *regular* ailments.

My next appointment with Dr. Turban-wearer is October 24, when I suppose he will move onto the next drug. I'm running out of possibilities and time both, FFS. Since the recent news of contaminated steroid shots and the resulting outbreak of meningitis, I am ever so glad I didn't jump on the shot bandwagon right away. I'm desperate, but not desperate enough for meningitis.

THE HOARD OF PAIN

Dammit, I started a gout attack yesterday. Just what I needed, another pain. Incidentally, let's talk about SCREAMY FRIGGIN PAINS...Gout is a very urgent, acute type of stabbing pain. I don't know if it's connected to the change in meds or not.  It is on the opposite side from where my previous attacks have occurred. I guess I'll find out, won't I? The only bonus in having a gout attack is that it makes my other pains seem less urgent. Yay for the brain, which has a way of addressing the most hideous pain first, and kind of shoving the other pains into the background. UGH!

It occurred to me today while watching TLC, that I have become a collector of pains-- a pain hoarder, if you will. Honest-to-goodness *stuff* hoarders will collect things and not even notice it's a problem until they are positively inundated by their items, or killed when a pile collapses on them. They rarely seek help unless until their horrible secret is discovered by loved ones, or the stench alerts authorities.  My hoard of various pains is slowly killing me, smothering me under their weight, looming over me in a great, teetering pile, affecting every aspect of my life.  Where did I put that snorkel?

2ND OPINION: OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS

I just got back from seeing a new pain specialist, hereafter to be known as *Dr. Turban-wearer,* and I have a new plan of attack. I had been hoping for injections, but he said since my pain is neuralgic/ neuropathic in nature, injections would probably not help and might even make me worse. He gave me three new drugs to try, one of which is Lyrica.

Dr. Turban-wearer told me today that when they opened my chest and spread the ribs apart, the nerves to T5 and T6 were damaged, which certainly explains the screamy boobs and the rib pain. It does not explain the continuing sternum pain. It does not explain my screamy xiphoid process. So, I got some answers, but not all. I am supposed to call him after five consecutive days on the drugs he issued today, to say if I am better or the same. WOW, he expects a result in only 5 days.  That alone makes me a little hopeful.

He said, "I know you are in terrible pain, but I also think you are a little mad." I asked if he meant *mad* as in bat-shit crazy, or *mad* as in angry? He laughed. I admitted to both. Being in pain this long without help has made me crazy. Being in pain this long and having doctors who do nothing has certainly made me angry.

I have completely stopped taking Neurontin/Gabapentin, the drug which was responsible for turning me into a floppy rag doll. All along it had not been helping my pain, and Dr. Whackadoo's solution was to increase the doseage, which only made me more clumsy and more floppy. The last thing any myasthenic needs is additional help at being weak (the point Dr. No-Fly, the neurologist, had been trying to make from the get-go). 

I have an appointment with Dr. Whackadoo tomorrow. It will most likely be my last visit with him, unless he has received some profound revelation in the past several days, or has miraculously grown wings and stigmata since the last time I saw him.

Turtling

I've been reminded that it has been some time since I made a post. Permanently losing more than half my entries kind of took the wind out of my blog sail.

I am living day to day, sometimes hour to hour, trying to kick the benny habit. I have made it to half the original dose. I can barely function. I can't sleep. I am ravenously hungry. I am so stressed I can do little other than make short forays away from my house for necessities, not to mention the stupefying heat that is keeping me indoors. My weak little grinch heart cannot take the heat and humidity. I have not unpacked anything and my lawn looks like shit.

Speaking of shit, I have managed to keep the back yard relatively shit free for the simple reason that the super werewolf smelling powers I have developed will not let me tolerate the stink of "barnyard."

I still feel like I have a knife in my chest. My boobs are still killing me. My doctors are still idiots. I am playing  the mindless Facebook game, CastleVille, just so I won't kill anyone. Life turtles onward.

Photophobia

At Whackadoo's office today I was straining my dim eyes to see what the hell he was typing into my file while trying not to be noticed at the same time.  The only word I could see--get this-- was "photophobic."  Har Har! I guess that explains the extreme vitamin D deficiency, the skin whiter than milk (I make milk look gray), and the Transitions lenses in my glasses.  Hrmph.

I have the lorazepam thing ironed out for the next 60 days, at which time I'll get a small reduction in the doseage, etc., etc., ad infinitum.

He has quadrupled one of the other drugs I take, Gabapentin, in the meantime.  Quadrupled!!!  WTF?Gabapentin is the drug responsible for my clumsiness.  Great.  Just fucking great.  I can't wait to fall so often that I just choose to lay on the floor to roll and scoot around the damned house, channelling Eddie Murphy in *Trading Places.* He actually said, "Aww come on, just TRY it. You can always stop taking it."  I rolled my photophobic eyes at him.  Bastard.  I could almost see demon horns sprouting from his forehead.

I'm going to TRY these doseages - I've got nothing to lose.  I do have a wheelchair if I need it.  It took me a long time to get out of it the last time I got REALLY sick.  I'd like to stay out of it.  I'd rather shove the Gabapentin up Whackadoo's ass, if need be, than get back in the damned chair.  I promised to badger him on the phone if it wasn't working, and I reminded him the neurologist told me to be very careful with Gabapentin.

::drums fingers on desk and dreams of some kind of fluffy, pink, girly, froo-froo drink and a menthol cigarette:: (Mind you, I don't drink or smoke.  Shit.)

Hooked on Bennies

Almost anyone with an ongoing serious illness knows that contracting an infection of some sort, will make the symptoms of the existing condition much worse.  The same is true for an extreme allergy attack. What this means for me, in my weakened state, is that a common cold can very easily kill me without the proper intervention and treatment.  Over the past month I got a double whammy.

The massive eye infections I was having turned out to be a drug reaction. During the Queen's flotilla I started with giant hives.  MISERABLE!  The first call I made was to Dr. Whackadoo regarding the hives, since   he had dispensed the most recent prescriptions I have, PLUS I know I should not just stop taking all the heart meds I take.  The orders were to stop everything and take Benedryl, so I stopped taking Whackadoo's scripts. Yes, my allergic reactions stopped, but what ensued was massive drug withdrawal.  I wound up in the ER last Wednesday, since I was certain I was dying.  I was absolutely frantic.

I had never before had a problem just stopping opiates/opioids.  The problem, by process of elimination, turned out to be lorazepam, AKA "bennies"... apparently one should never just STOP taking this drug.  I am going to have to wean off over a period of months.  I have been taking it for more than a year. Many of my so called *physical symptoms* are actually side effects of lorazepam. To my horror, I read that withdrawal from this drug can last up to a year and some are never able to successfully stop taking it. I also read that withdrawal symptoms can be life threatening, especially if the individual is not basically healthy. ::sniff::  The hospital sent me home with a script for lorazepam in a higher dose.

I was originally prescribed this drug by the cardiologist who stopped saying "You're going to be OK," quite some time ago.  I have a death sentence hanging over my head--an agonizing one.  Wound pain has returned....oh probably threefold (on a scale of 1-10 I am at 27.)  Can't take a breath without wanting to scream.  I wonder how long I can last like this? This is the first day I have been fully lucid. I am not certain lucidity is the best option.

Shaking in my Imaginary Boots

I'm afraid.  Constantly.  Like shaking in my boots afraid (I can't get my boots on since my legs are too swollen). I have mostly resigned myself to pain. Unless I can totally sedate myself the pain never goes away - not with the measly pills I get.  It has been a whole year and I'm not any better. The only thing that IS going to lessen is the amount and type of pills I get.

What I haven't resigned myself to is the lack of breath that goes along with the pain.  For instance, walk to the car = chest pain + gasping for breath + leg pain, and all this combined = huge fear.

I am going to try to scrape some poop out of the yard before it gets too hot. I have been told to not go outside when the temp is 80 or above. Apparently heat puts added stress on my tiny black grinch heart. So as soon as it gets light outside, I'll be out there with my shovel and rake. I pretend they are diamonds and I'm prospecting. (I have to pretend SOMETHING or this little yard would overflow in no time.

I try to plan to do one thing a day.  It's hell when that one thing involves crap.  Maybe someday I'll work up to two things.

Pain Haiku x 2

Stabbed with knife-like ribs
Every deep breath is torture
Movement agony

Desperate for relief
No treatments can touch my pain
I demand an end

Back to square one. I can think of nothing else but pain. Once again, pain is my ruler.  It sucks bad, and I can't explain it to someone who has not ever had unrelenting pain. Wondering if I should gobble some more steroids, but will be right back in the same position I'm in now as soon as I wean off again. 

I am beginning to think that either the metal in my chest needs to come out, or
my ribs are separated, or my sternum has a non-union.  The pain is exquisite, and it seems I can't get anyone to listen to me.

I am considering trolling the streets for a pain pill supply. Or at least polling everyone I see for a pain pill-prescribing doctor who is accepting patients.

2 Steps Back

I swear my last name should be Murphy.  My entire genetic line should belong to the Murphy family.  I'm talking about the Murphy's Law people - if something possibly can go wrong, it will.  It has been just one fubar after the other for me, all week long. 

I've felt kinda down the past couple days.  I thought a haircut might help.  It didn't, it just made me look more like Beethoven.  I have vowed that it will be my last haircut.  I am tired of screwing with hair - I never should have gotten it cut in the first place.  It WANTS to be long and straight and I have decided to let it be long and straight.  No more fighting it.  It will be happier and I will be less stressed.

I started playing my guitar again today after a long absence.  My hands are very slow, and I can't remember even one entire song.  This might be part of pumphead syndrome, but in any case, my illness has stolen my music from me. I used to have a footlocker full of sheet music, but no telling where that might be or if it even exists anymore.

I can barely handle the 12-string.  I have a 6-string acoustic that actually has a bullet hole in it...don't ask.  The damned thing won't stay tuned, even for one song.  I think it needs new tuners at the very least.  Anyway, I'm toying with the idea of getting another 6 string.  Since the one I have is basically unplayable, and would probably cost just as much to fix as the cost of a new/gently used guitar. 

I also need to get back to my toy-making, but that takes a little more concentration than I have available right now.

The whole point of this is stress relief. I could be out walking/training my Rue dog, but since I have a broken ass, I've been trying to move as little as possible. I still have pain issues - it's just that the pains have given themselves different priorities now. God forbid somebody should give me a fucking pain pill.  I see the pain guy on the 23rd.  Maybe he'll take pity on my broken, swollen ass, but probably not....I'm a Murphy underneath it all.