I am tired of how invariably shitty my day to day life has been since the last MVA.  I feel so totally alone and like no one understands it at all.  No one gets it.  No one.  Not the doctors, not my family, not my friends.  No one.  I feel so alone and it makes me so frustrated and impotent that I just want to scream. 

I’ve been having awful dreams about the car accidents for quite a while now.  The sickening feeling of waking up in a panic as I see the dashboard of my old car tilting at an alarming angle and the realization that we might roll into the oncoming traffic… it’s horrendous and I feel as though I can’t breathe… like there’s a heavy weight on my chest.  Lately there’s been a new variation on this recurrning dream where I’m not reliving a previous accident but rather am in my little red car and have been in yet another accident.  There’s a massive truck smashed into the side of my little red car and I’m trapped, and I can’t get out, and I can’t breathe and I’m screaming, I’m really trying to scream as loud as I can and it feels as though my lungs will burst.  But no words come out and no ones hears me… and I’m in so much pain and so totally helpless and just so… trapped.

Fear of motion, fear of pain

Hoping it won’t start again

Constant companion, constant foe

Endless presence, endless woe

Angel pills bring some relief

Lie still, don’t move before the thief

Steals the moment of peace, so sweet

Leaves burning, stabbing, piercing heat

Two white to relax, two blue to relieve

Three hours escape will be achieved

Don’t take too much and be accused

All hope of living I will lose

Take too little, the fire rages great

More pills then needed to abate

Take too much, the help runs low

Fear the help forever goes

Still so much better that help is here

I searched for compassion for many years

The saviors thought a kiss could cure

The fire was imagined, would not endure

Pills for twinges they often saw

Nothing offered, helped at all

Looks that shamed kept me away

Searching to end the hell of each day

A savior that knew, offered hope

Belief in me and pills to cope

Nerve block injections add to the force

Longer relief sent straight to the source

Gives me a chance to lessen the pills

Maybe return to a day fore the ills

Still now the cycle has gone on too long

Knowledge keeps hope from growing strong

If I move, does it begin?

Turn of the neck, lift of the chin

Maybe a walk, my health improve

Or leave me in spasms, so I can’t move

Gnawing pain may be my reward

For scrubbing the kitchen counter hard

Longing for the swing of a bat or a club

Yield burning spears, no one can snub

Fear of motion, fear of pain

Learn a hot stove burns again

Fear of not moving, I grow weak

Fear of damage pills may wreak

Fear of motion, fear of pain

I’ll take the days that may remain

Space to breathe between the wave

Of hell that makes me seek the grave

Angel pills can keep me here

To call a friend and offer cheer

To write a poem that may explain

What you can’t know about my pain

PS – I didn’t write this poem it really was written by that prolific author, Anonymous.
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I went to my appointment this morning and much to my surprise met with an unusually personnable orthopaedic surgeon.  Just yesterday I was complaining how about how many damn specialists I have seen over the years and how anxious these awful appointments make me… and here I am this evening feeling like the earth must have titlted off it’s axis or something because something ain’t right.  There’s no such thing as a nice orthopod…. is there?

I’ve long been aware that most of these specialist surgeons think they’re small Gods.  Orthopaedic, neurological… doesn’t matter which discipline really they mostly tend to have massive superiority complexes and little or no bedside manner.   And for reasons unknown… orthopaedic surgeons are often the worse.  I know this to be true.  My GP actually warned me about how ‘brusque’ they tend to be, not realizing I have seen more than my fair share.  And he did confirm that it is not just my perception that being an almighty prick is a job requirement with orthopaedic surgeons… apparently they are actually widely reputed to be the most arrogant bunch of prats with the worst bedside manners this side of the black stump.

So imagine my shock when I met a doctor today who 1) seemed to give a shit,  2) actually explained to me what was going on with the ‘crunching’ in my neck and 3) told me that there wasn’t a lot that could be done about it but managed to convey the same with actual empathy!

Unbelievable!!!  So while this one unexpectedly non-traumatic appointment doesn’t really do a lot to wipe away the 18 years of dealing with arrogant surgeons who couldn’t give a fuck about their patients…. I have learnt one thing – the name a good orthopod in Bris-Vegas if anyone have need of one (details available upon request).
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I have an appointment with an orthopaedic surgeon tomorrow to try and figure out what the hell is going ‘crunch’ in my neck every time I go for a walk or have the temerity to do something truly outrageous like try to walk up a flight of stairs.  I don’t want to go.

I have a long and complicated medical history where my back is concerned and an even longer and even more convoluted history with medico-legal specialists.  I hurt my back initially in an MVA in Aug 1991… then again in another MVA in Dec 1991 and unfortunately again in Sept 1994. 

Through out this whole time I had –
a treating physiotherapist
a treating chiropractor
a treating orthopaedic surgeon
a treating neurosurgeon
a treating occupational therapist
a treating pain management psychiatrist
who were supposed to be working with my GP to resolve my unresolving chronic pain issues.

I also had three defendents in one of the most complex court cases my lawyer type friends had ever heard of.  So basically this meant that from 1991 until 1999 (when the case settled) that I had MY lawyers and ALL three of the defendents lawyers sending me off to ‘assessing or consultant’ medico-legal specialists in all of the above fields on a semi-regular basis for roughly the entirety of my 20s.

Assessing or consultant medico-legal specialists don’t treat you… it’s their job to basically try and lay blame for your injury onto someone other than the defendent who hired them.  They usually give you a perfucntory examination and get a Reader’s Digest version of your medical history.  They are generally given limited (and often biased) information to help facilitate them in making their ‘determination’ about such things as spinal function and residual incapacity etc.  Anyway I was flicking though some of my old reports because I have this appointment tomorrow and I DON’T WANT TO GO.

Over the years I’ve seen six physiotherapists, two chiropractors, nine orthopaedic surgeons, five neurosurgeons, six pain management psychiatrists, three occupational therapists, two accupuncturists, four massage therapists, an ENT, a naturopath, a homeopath, a bowen massage therapist… and I’m sure there some of them whose names and occupations I can’t even remember anymore.

But what is shitting me right now is that I thought I had this all behind me.  I don’t want to go engage a lawyer and waste another 8 years of my life bogged down in litigation.  I don’t want to find myself doing the rounds of assessing medico-legal consultants again… but mostly I don’t want to spend my time telling my fucked up story over and over and over and over and over again.

Before this last car accident in Nov 2007… I had some back pain occasionally – usually if I slept poorly or did something stupid like putting up tents for a day at festival or spent all day in the garden.  But I was drug free and I didn’t spend my every waking minute thinking about back pain.   I’ve been given so much medication I can’t even keep track of it anymore – Diazepam, Digesic, Panadeine Fortre, Talam, Ordine, Cipramil, Seroquel, Metformin, Duramine, Temaze, Panacortelone and I know there’s stuff in my drawer that isn’t on this list. 

I don’t want to go see yet another ‘specialist’ and go through my entire life’s history all over again.  And the longer this draws out and the longer I am off work, and the longer the medical bills get… the more likely I’m going to have to go and get all lawyered up again   🙁

Which is the last thing I want.
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Valentine’s Day – the post mortem.  Okay I was going to join in with Hilly’s Self Love Valentine Day Extravaganza yesterday and I sat down and uploaded my little banner yesterday and was all ready to write down something that I loved or at least really liked about myself as per the instuctions. (Post the banner, write about something you love about yourself and see if anyone else has things they love about you too).

But when I started to try and think of something that I really loved about myself… absolutely nothing of any consequence came to mind.  Sure I can rattle of a list as long as my arm of things I don’t like about me…  my fucked back and chronic pain and my infertility and the insulin resistance and the shitty metabolism and the drug fucked stupor and the cranky, bitchy and generally irritable demeanour that I seem to have (inadvertently) permanently adopted.

But coming up with one thing I really LOVE about myself? I just feel like I had nothing.  All I could think of was stupid little things… stupid little unimportant things.  After thinking about it for a few minutes I started to feel like the little things are all I’ve got to hang on to at the moment. 

Because I really don’t like where my life has been for the last 15 months.  All I think about from morning until night is pain.  I feel like I am losing myself in here somewhere.  I don’t laugh as readily as I used to (which isn’t good as I wasn’t known for being easily amused in the first place).  I am pessimistic and cynical and try hard but can’t seem to stop it from affecting the people around me.  I feel so fucking depressed all the time and there’s always tears just below the surface… when what I REALLY REALLY want is to be the exact opposite. 

Wishing for things to be different doesn’t make it so and thus far the unrelenting nature of this intense chronic back pain is slowly killing everything about me that I ever thought of as worthwhile.  If you feel like a burden on the people around you, and you feel like you’re not a useful contributing member of your family… or your community… or society in general – well then before you know it you start to feel like you’d be better off not here at all.

Given that this is where my head at 99.9% of my waking hours I guess it is not surprising that I found it difficult to find something that I love about myself.  Because quite frankly I hate my fucked up body and I hate what being in pain all the time has done to my emotional outlook and mental stability and I hate what I’ve become.  I hate what it is doing to my relatonships and the wonderful people around me who deserve so much better than this shit. 

If our realities are shaped by our perceptions… then my reality is that I’m pained, miserable and depressed and useless as tits on a bull to boot.  So no.  I don’t have anything I love about being me at the moment.
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I’ve been sleeping really poorly since ‘the incident’.  I usually take a small handful of drugs before bed… a little valium cocktail if you will, with some endep and an analgesic of the day chaser.  If I take my pills like a good little girl I’m usually lucky enough to get somewhere between five or six hours ‘unconsciousness’.  I’m totally reluctant to call that time, ‘sleep’ mostly because I certainly never wake up feeling like I’ve slept or feeling ‘refreshed’ or ‘rejuvenated’ or any of those other ‘re-‘ words which seem to be things experienced by other (painfree) peoples.  

No I’m just literally knocking myself out every night and I know that if I fail to take my handful of nightly pills I quite literally am unable to sleep AT ALL because of the pervasive pain that never leaves me alone.  What puzzles me most is how upon waking the first thing I notice is that I’m in pain… still.  Stiff, sore and still experiencing horrible pervasive pain.  How is it that I manage to stay unconscious up until that moment of waking?  Is it quite literally that the drugs are effective for X hours and Y minutes at which point they wear off and ‘ta-da I’m awake and there’s that nasty pain again’?  Or is my body somehow ignoring or not recognizing the pain in those last minutes before waking where the first tangible sensation is an awreness of pain?

I don’t know.  Every morning I wake up, roll out of bed, stand shakily up and down some different pills – there’s  big surprise – find myself blinking several times to try and clear my drug fucked over-sedated brain, stumble to the ensuite, splash some cold water on my face and attempt (often futilely) to brush my hair and make myself presentable before wandering out of my bedroom whereupon (this morning) I was greeted by Mr K thus –

"You look like shit.  Did someone hit you in the face or something?"

Sigh… thanks.  You sure know how to make a girl feel good.
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