Monday, July 27, 2009

Truth really is stranger than fiction

The nightmares are back. And so, as should follow is the insomnia. New twist tonight: Hubs woke up and yelled "stopped shaking the bed" (waking a wailing whimpering me, which he did not notice as he went back to dreamland.) So, I finally was getting some unpleasant, but actual sleep and he woke me to tell me to stop hitting the bed. Hubs is not a light sleeper so I gather I must have been doing a number on it. This is bad from the perspective of I can already feel the increase in pain in my bad wrist ( and that's after taking 2 percocet) and from the wifely perspective of, "but, he's the big, protective man, he should have awakened, held me and soothed me until the tears stopped." The sad thing here is when he gets up, the odds (and I'm not a betting woman) are he won't remember our altercation during the night or that he left a blubbering, broken woman crying in bed.

But not crying for long because I got to that point of "I can't stand to sleep next to someone who is that insensitive to my obvious emotional distress." at which time I got out of bed took a long hot bubble bath, did a facial, started a manicure, did the deep conditioner thing a facial peel moisturized, the whole 9 yards and then picked up my laptop and a bottle of water and moved to our never, ever used office with it's comfy lazy boy chair. Where I am now working, with a brief brake to post this.

See, everyone has bad dreams. I'm aware of that. My bad dreams fall somewhere more toward well...things we'd like to think aren't real life. Except, I can say from personal, lengthy experience, it's real. And it's a scary world out there.

My bad dreams tend to fall in the categories of violent deaths for anyone I love, and sometimes myself, all preventable if only I'd done the right thing to avoid the crazy persons' wrath.* Sidenote: It's virtually impossible to do the right thing thing to avoid a crazy person's wrath. Typically they center on my greatest fear from my entire life: her killing my mother. A mute point since my beloved mother succumbed to cancer nearly 3 years ago, and yet the night mares still come.

And 2 percocet later and the pain in my wrsit is only geting worse not better which is to be expected if you have a nerve disease and start beating things up--even a bed. But, um, oweeeeeee. And another night of no sleep saddens me because on a good night *thanks to the pain disease* I sleep maybe 3 hours. Tonight we're down to 10 minutes. I'm cranky already.

*Disclaimer: Before you start thinking ME the crazy person let me say that more than my psychotherapist upon hearing the bare bones version of the history here has told me 3 things, not in the same order 1)True Sociopaths and psychopaths are rare and my tormenter is one. 2) Getting my affairs in order would be a wise idea since it's not improbably she might succeed in killing me one of thse times. 3) I should leave key pieces of information in various "safe" locations to be handed over to the authorities in case of #2 to strengthen the case. Um, wait, are ANY of those things you want to hear when you go to the doctor? No? Me either. K, so I think you know we can say maybe I have some reasons for nightmares.

On a momentarily lighter note, a friend of mine who know, a lot of the story thinks I should right a book about this woman and that fact that for good or bad that I am, against all odds, still alive. What do you think internet? Is insomnia a good enough reason?

Friday, June 19, 2009

Open mouth, insert foot

So, last night my dad said to me "I don't understand why you have to worry about EVERYTHING."

Without missing a beat, and clearly without thinking, I said to him "I was conditioned that way."

There was then dead silence, and true to our repressed, unable to deal with one another ways, we changed the subject. And I leave unsaid the thing that I think at least a few times a week: I'm really not supposed to be here. I really wasn't supposed to live through what I did. Why did I?

Monday, June 15, 2009

The shot that changed my life

6 years ago, on 6/13/03 I went to my doctor. My doctor who I loooooved. There aren't many doctors I'd say that about, by the way. And after 20 years of battling a rare disease believe me I've seen more than my fair share of doctors. And had good reason to dislike many of them.

At any rate, after having a tendon injury in my arm for almost 3 months, and the regular local doctor saying "hmmmm.." I went to my beloved specialist who said I needed a steroid shot. Into the joint on the inside of my wrist. At this point I should mention I'm *highly* allergic to lidocaine, novicaine and all those other lovely "caine's" they put in shots so that you don't feel the needle go all the way to your bone. So, I agreed, and there I sat, completely awake, no numbing feeling a very large needle go all the way into the joint up against the bone. Both my doctor and father were amazed I did it without flinching. Then the doctor said he couldn't have done it without a shot of whiskey. Well gee if they had offered neither would I! LOL.

An hour later we were driving the long drive home. The pain was getting worse. Exponentially worse. The pain was familiar, and scary. For over a decade I'd felt the unrelenting, burning aching pain in my ankle. I'd lived with the pain that made putting a sheet over my leg unbearable. I'd lived on cat naps because actual sleep was impossible. But for a few years it had been managed, I'd been functional. On that drive home I felt the burning in my wrist. By the time I got home an hour later I had to ask my husband to undress me because I couldn't. By the next morning there was no escaping it. The shot had caused the
Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy to spread to my wrist. Life wasn't going to the be same again.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Does it really get easier?

For weeks now I've been consumed reading this blog, blogs linking to it, everything I can to immerse myself in this little girls story. I didn't know her, but I feel like I know her from reading and watching video and looking at happy, adorable and beautiful pictures. I've cried, oh how I've cried. And I've once again been amazed by the power of the internet. I've worn purple, I've cried and smiled as I watch the purple flowers in my yard, and each time I've thought of Maddie.

It's not the first time I've seen the power of the internet--I work from home because of the internet (literally it's what the company I work for does. I found my husband online back before it was fashionable. Or acceptable even. I've found my car, our puppy, and 2 houses online. I've made fabulous friends, and lost some less fabulous ones.

Hmmm wait I had a point here and I totally went off target. Oh, right, grief. I read each post of her parents coping with their grief as best they can. I read the comments and I selfishly hope all these people who say "it gets easier," are right. Not just for the Spohrs, but for many of us.

My mom was everything to me. She was my #1 supporter, my best friend (even through the teen years) the one absolute ROCK in my life. She died 2 years 7 months and 6 days ago. And, if being able to tell you down to the day, how long it's been might give you an idea that I am no where NEAR being "better" or finding it "easier." Yes, I don't break down in tears 20 times a day. But, I also don't really feel the joy. I used to live, now I exist. But, I exist with a piece of me (technically I guess I'm a piece of her, but semantics right?) missing.

She's part of another story I'll be trying to tell on this blog, but I'm just getting my feet wet here, I have to work up to that.

But back to my point, I hope all these people are right and it gets easier, because I've tried therapy, I've tried overworking to the point where it's physically bad for my health and I'm not finding it easier.

Who are you and what have you done with my husband?

My husband called a while ago to check in with "the love of his life." Awwww, isn't that sweet? Well, yes it is sweet. But it's also so highly unlike him that I feel the need to take his temperature when he gets home from work.

Don't get me wrong, he's a very sweet guy, but not...shall we say, overly effusive? He's sweet in ways like knowing I don't sleep well (if ever) he got silk sheets for my birthday to try to make me more comfortable. He's thoughtful. But calling to check in with the "love of his life?" Not so much.

Maybe it's like when he ate salad and he was going for shock value. Still, I think when he gets home I'll check his temperature....

The house blues

We're trying to sell our house. We're fortunate to be in a position where it's not a necessity. We have good equity. But it's a tough time to sell a house that has all it's parts (and then some) when you're going up against short sales and foreclosures. Still, it makes sense for us, at this time to try to get out of Dodge and leave this state of which we are not fond.

Even if we didn't want to go home* this house is too big for just us. This house was full of hope, of what might be, of what could be. As I write this I sit in the room I always thought "could be" the nursery. That's not going to happen now. And for 2 people this house is simply too big. This house screams "Family". 3 empty bedrooms. A family room and living room. A yard. It's too much for just me to take care of while working full time. It's not where we want to be. We don't have ties here. Actually, we don't have ties anywhere, which is a kind of morose post for another day.

For now I cross my fingers everytime some family comes to look at this house and hope they'll buy it and we can leave and go find something that fits a little better.

*Home is a relative word. We actually are not from where we want to move, the city, just the state.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

For Maddie Spohr

For over a week now I've been reading, devouring really, everything I can find on the angel I never knew, but feel I did. Seeing her smile, her love for her little white dog (something we would have had in common). I have laughed and cried and laughed again while reading her parents blogs at www.thespohrsaremultiplying and the I am in fact, "just another one of the faceless, namesless people who left comments, donations etc." And while I have read blogs for years, I was finally inspired to write my own. And it's all because of little Maddie story and Heather's amazing writing prowess. Because of reading the blog--all in one sitting--twice because I was that compelled I realized that what people have been telling me for years about getting the pain out there and not bottling it up is really for the best. The amazing attitude the Sporhs have, and the outreaching of support acrross the blogosphere made me realize it's time to be brave, and rethink and relive the pain. And maybe find some of my trademark humor along the way. For that, and for sharing Maddie with the world I want to say a huge thank you to Mike and Heather, as well as yet another nameless, faceless, person on the internet sending heartfelt condolences, virtual hugs for you and Rigby. I made my brand new blog as purple as I could as I learn to do this, my dog is wearing a purple collar daily, and I'm wearing everything purple I own. I watch the flowers fall from the bushes in my front yard (also purple) and I think of Maddie This little girl I never knew touched my heart and my soul.