a reblog: letter to my mind and body (march 2011) for day 6 HAWMC 2013

As I wrote about day 6:
“I hate to let it, but pain wins again. I tried for days to write a letter to my pain; nothing I wrote seemed to capture the relationship between us. Perhaps it’s because we’ve been together so long we communicate without exact/actual words. Or what I want to say can’t be contained in a reasonable length post.”
I would have left it at that except . . . Checking to see if I had used a particular analogy in an earlier blog post, I came across this from March 2011. While I’m not writing a letter to my pain, it is a monologue based on chronic health conditions.
So, history does repeat its self . . .

“Disclaimer: This is not an original idea of mine; I’ve seen various forms of this in the cyberverse. After a rough week, I felt the need to ask my body/mind why they were causing me so much grief. A letter seemed the most appropriate format. {2013 disclaimer: couldn’t get the spacing between paragraphs uniform. Sigh, my self-editor shrugs her shoulders}
Dear Mind & Body:
What is it you are trying to tell me? I lie, stone still, and listen. Hear heart beat; feel pain; feel the weight of you like lead against the duvet. 

If I close my eyes, I can see the neck throb spasms; visualize the blood circulating (or not) from top of head to tip of toe. Feel where the numbness gives way to the jagged edges of pain. Count the seconds between the stomach cramps or stabbing gurgles.

The deep aches in my legs seem to laugh at the four lidocaine patches (one on thigh and shin of each leg). Face feels like sinus infection, abscessed teeth, black eye on the left side. The pain cascade from neck to cheek bone to jaw to teeth, once begun, seems immune to breakthrough meds.
Are you punishing me for neglecting you in the past? When I could walk for hours; party to dawn. When my mind still could hold information; when it didn’t hurt to talk. When the dragon in my belly hibernated; occasionally shifting her position in her sleep; shaking scales and tail; flexing wings while dreaming of flying.
Do my legs ache because I walked too much or not enough yesterday? Even after sleeping for 10 hours on Saturday, the fatigue still sits on my shoulders. So, how much sleep do you really need since you insist on usually waking me up every 2 ours or so?

What do you want me to feed you? Why do you crave sugar like an addict; why do you let me lose control over how much and what I eat? What you liked yesterday, you give me grief over today. Or was it what I ate 3 days ago?

What do you expect of me? What messages are you sending in zapping pains, soul-deep aches. When I try to stretch you gently, move you carefully, you retaliate with increased neck spasms, facial pain, and migraines.
Why do you opt for a chemical imbalance that makes depression is my shadow? Why have you chosen to have a good memory for bad things and a bad memory for good things? I walk into a room, unsure why I am there. Things go missing like large chunks of my cognitive abilities.
The act of sitting here writing you a letter has started a new pain cascade. The tingling numbness will explode. Back in bed; in the fetal position; I will slow down my breath, and try and decode the messages you keep sending. Is it morse code – the dots and dashes of my pounding heart; binary language of 1s and 0s combined in pain; a mythical language from our ancient past following the neuropathways? Where do I get my “secret decoder ring?” When will you speak to me in words; sentences; paragraphs that I can understand? ”

Pain takes a vacation

I don’t like strawberry jam – it reminds me of a childhood marked by pain. Crushed “baby” orange aspirins mixed into a spoonful of strawberry jam meant that the pain in my ankles, or the strength of my headache warranted intervention. I feel the same way about cherry-flavoring. The medication for my post-cold/allergy triggered asthma-like symptoms was a sickly sweet red “elixir.” Nineteenth century “snake oil” might have tasted better. Don’t believe Mary Poppins’ assertions that “just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down . . . in the most delightful way.”

Pain medication now is measured in milligrams, not spoonfuls. Most seem to have no taste, washed down quickly with large glasses of water. But, occasionally one will stick – to tongue, roof of mouth – with a bitter taste and crumbling texture. Meds taken by the handful, usually at least one falls to the floor and immediately hides itself.

Or, perhaps it’s gone on a cruise – some pains take a vacation now and then. Not sure exactly where they go on holiday: trip to the Islands? casinos in Vegas? treks through the Andes? an African safari? a stay in Bora Bora? I never get a postcard – guess pain is just having too much fun. Or up on Mount Everest, or at the North Pole – no tourist bureau and post office there.

My pains are all over the place when they’re home: head; neck, spine; abdomen, stomach, digestive system, legs, ankles. So if tension headache goes on a cruise with thighs, the absence may not register. No pain stays away too long or necessarily journeys with a companion.

Teasingly, my father always said he would buy me a one-way ticket anywhere I wanted to go. Wonder if I could arrange the same deal with my pain? Send it on a round the world trip on a replica 18^th century schooner or a hot air balloon. Pay for resettlement in Patagonia. Put pain in the Himalayas looking for the yeti, or the forests of the Pacific Northwest to locate big foot.

Of course, if I had the money to relocate pain – I’d already be there myself.