6/08/2017

No words

More than 30 months ago, roughly 900 days give or take, my ability to keep pushing against the barriers my body was imposing on my will faltered, fell, shattered, and our lives have not been the same since. My mother's body had been giving her all sorts of grief for many years but had attacked with a ferocity none of us expected. Learning to live through these things has been challenging for all of us.

We've hobbled along, my mom and I, together through phone calls and visits, commiserating and laughing in the face of this ridiculous roadblock to our plans and we've each pushed and fought and paid the price when we pushed too hard. Many of our ailments are overlapping and I've believed that if we could and did do genetic testing, we'd both have a glitch in the same place causing this. Not that it'd do much good. There's no stopping this train we're on. There's just maximizing the journey.

For nearly two years I've had no words to offer here. I learned to write essays that offered a story, a wrap up at the end with a lesson, a witty line, or closure.

I can't do that any more. There's no lesson in a disease process that defies naming definitively all while attacking one's body in new and novel and often cruel ways and seeing one's mother continually being hammered with greater and greater challenges.

There are no witty lines left. I've lost them. I've battled depression, anxiety and panic attacks for decades and the ways they screw a person's life up when they're winning. I finally owned my PTSD--the flashbacks and nightmares and the inescability of the experiences that created it this past month to the new psych NPs now managing me and my four labels as they move my meds around, attempting to undo the damage people not trained in psychiatric meds did me. So far, I've weaned off one med and am weaning off another this month. Come the end of June, my 49th birthday present to myself is being off two meds that have hampered my ability to take other meds for pain and migraines. In July I will start a long weaning off the original psych med I've been on for eight years plus. In the end, I'll be down to one med that treats the first three labels, which should make the fourth one quieter. 

I suppose that could be read as a closure but people with those labels know closure is a joke, a fairy tale, a cruel lie.

Fixing that doesn't fix a body bent on attacking itself. It just means maybe I'll develop wit again. I highly doubt I'll ever find anything really funny about this, but my labels and the med taper may be obscuring my view a bit.

So I'm left here almost at the end of this tasting the bitterness of a raw almond, knowing I've failed the goals of essay writing. No lesson. No witty line. No closure.

If I argue I'm truly not bitter, it will ring hollow, an obvious lie to readers sensing that bitter undercurrent. I am a bit bitter. Things were going well. The kids were doing well, Rick was ok, my job was great and I was where I wanted to be professionally. And truthfully, all I lost was being in the thick of things. Being homebound as an introvert is not a hardship. Mostly. Losing driving isn't an issue when one's too ill to go anywhere. There's no room for boredom with all three kids, seven dogs and nine cats to entertain me. 

It took bifurcating my life into my illness over here on its own and my life with my family as far from that as possible. Everyday with my kids, husband, and critters is a damned good day, a victory wrested from an illness that is constantly changing while consistently worsening. My illness doesn't get to make my life sad (even when it does) and it doesn't get to rob me of the joy I find in my teenagers' animated chatter, in the lapful of cats and dogs I get each day and their curling next to me at night, surrounding me like protective talismans. And none shall pass, their protectiveness says.

My illness doesn't get to take teaching from me. It just makes me a better teacher, kinder, softer and a believer in how easy it is for a person's life to go to hell on them with no warning. Deadlines retreat into the distance and the focus of showing care takes precedence. We're all on the same ride, whatever metaphor one might prefer. Mine's a train hurtling ever faster into the pitch dark blackness of a tunnel with no end in sight. Yours might be the roller coaster from hell.

The reality is we're all walking wounded and it will go a hell of a lot easier if we link arms, share adaptive equipment, and hold on tight to each other. 

And there's a lesson. Not bad for having had no words at the start of this.

2 comments:

Adelaide Dupont said...

As my fellow Plusser Maria was looking at Sweetie, I was thinking that Sweetie had virtually never known you as "the Kim before".

All too easy to go to hell with no warning, Kim.

Kim Wombles said...

That's true. That summer I was already napping for hours and sleeping the weekends. She thinks sleeping on me or next to me most hours of the day is how we do things, and she's right.

It really is, Adelaide, and I'm not sure it's possible to ever understand how or why it's happened or that we had absolutely no control over it happening.