Fibromyalgia?
What the hell?
Even before approximately two years ago, gout betrayed my body and I embarked on a horrid trip. I, like so many others, hike a trail of questions. Looking for answers too long in coming.
Bastard Gout, thank God, was an isolated event. My current and recurring pain is the strangest animal I've known, gout-like and periodically unbearable as it can be. Physical therapy, on advice from my doctor truly helped - NOT. The reason for this to be explained later.
I'm a big sweet, german girl with a happy family. Head of this family, whose badge says "The ONE" but means "love", is our revered center. He's my betrothed. Sort of short and aging be damned, his eyes say it all. "I LOVE YOU!" Mil besos, mil besos, mil besos, even when he's annoyed. My tale of healing depends on his support.
His introduction under my belt, our story begins.
My beloved husband and I stared into each other's terrified eyes at the end of May of last year, having just heard the news. He had a stroke on his left side. God help us.
2011's challenging summer was appropriately punctuated with dead flowers as hospital trips consumed my days. I found myself, the diligent gardener, suddenly brutal in the neglect of my posies. My baby daddy was my focus and still, thank God, IS! We've arrived at an agreeable impasse. Resigned to a fight, t o g e t h e r.
Luckily for us his loyalty and charm saved his job after missing longer than the allowable absence. Each day of our trial - taken one at a time, just like the steps he takes. With almost no stumbles and stubbornly - one by one. Grateful for being able to eat dribble-free and to wipe when duty calls. My words, not his, he perseveres. Still, feeling free to curse like a sailor in silence, I internalized my anger as he perfected his obvious stoic resolve. You see, his preoccupation has never wavered. His concern? Not for himself but for his family, his wifey, his.
My return to the blog? Quite simply put, I need - not want - to work out the stress. Put pen to paper, dump the depression and hammer out the hassle. Questions need answers.
Yes, this is about me. My symptoms, ever-present, join me and my greatest advocate, hobbling into the doctor's office. I jokingly said, "race ya." My hobble from the pain and his, well, getting better all the time. Asked how his leg is doing, he'll tell you, "It keeps following me!" His resilience is nothing short of amazing. His support too verifies the fact that we're in this by hook or crook as a team.
My man's progress was slow and steady and admittedly requires me to bear this chronic crap in order in order to care for his needs. Pissed? Yep. Not that he needed me but that I couldn't be there more easily for him. ALL these years and ALL those wonderful meals and memories he'd selflessly given, I wanted to be there for him. Be there for him because he, a typical man, will not admit to needing help. Now for once, I could repay just a tiny bit of my gratitude.
Ours has been a long journey already and finally we decide to acquiesce to an inevitable fact. The house too big, the yard's care too taxing and our lives shorter by the day...big man on campus finally agreed. We need to move into a one-story home. Fun and family is now higher on our priority list. Pain be damned, I am determined to pack us up and PRONTO, Tonto! But that isn't easy.
The pain nor the accompanying symptoms are nothing if not dependably there. It varies in intensity but remains my shadow.
Symptoms consistent, diagnosis unsatisfactory until now, I've survived the last year with the occasional prescription of vicodin. That is one of the reasons I must, we must, find a solution to my pain. Hyper exaggerated by a million times (okay, that's an exaggeration) the pain plugs away. I resort to scheduling progress on packing. Afraid to be denied my pain relief, I take ONE pill to get at least a little work done. With my pill and three days recovery period, I pretend to be the "little train that could." Slow but methodical in progress. Setbacks seem to be less of an enemy, allowing me an occasional break in the schedule. My gears are reduced to "go" and "collapse". Just those two.
Our modern family is typical. One son lives too far away to be a practical solution to the daily rigors of "staging" and packing up the house. The other sonny boy lives nearby and tries to contribute during his busy life and is one of our 3 main helpers. Son #1, Son #2 and Son #3. The latter being our sweetheart nephew. His reputation is and always will be that of "tall, up for helping anyone and for being the totally lovable". Everybody loves him. A family friend also gives of his brain and braun. A great team, all in all.
Back to this blog's title...I listed a litany of ills on a used envelope because I was afraid I'd forget something at the doctor's office. My visit began with, "I wish I had done a PowerPoint presentation so no one goes to sleep midway!" Interjected and included on my list is a suggestion of my honey's..."why don't you just say what DOESN'T hurt? It'd be faster." (in case you're curious, it's my elbows that don't hurt) Ha.
Chuckles aside, all four of my ears (yep, deaf girl here) heard my doctor say something that just may be music to my ears. A probable diagnosis. Testing to come, I'm already somewhat relieved. NOT because I long for an autoimmune disease but because now something may actually help. And by helping me, it in turn helps my lover.
Meds adjusted...depression, pain, stress and anxiety to be addressed with Cymbalta. No more Paroxetine, a Paxil generic and Crestor also cast aside due to its reputation for delivering pain to the joints. Whaaaaaat? Gladly gone from my pill box by gully, pun intended! Temporarily anyway to see if it delivers results by omission.
So far my pain IS a little better. Apparently stress is an understated trigger for pain caused by Fibromyalgia. By lacking deep restorative sleep, the body can not and will not repair itself properly. Also, exercise doesn't help. Pain on pain not helping because insomnia deters restorative healing. When my doctor say that it's NOT all in my head, I heard music, I swear. Dramatically swelling music. A narrative of hope.
Internet research explains almost verbatim my symptoms. Really? My fatigue, the palpitations, my heart stuck to the back of my chest, the depression resulting from feeling excluded from activities, the almost unbearable pain and the anger it can jump start. Even the lack of swelling makes sense, it's not that kind of illness. Anxiety, earaches, gummy eyes, mouth sores and forgetfulness, just a few bullet points on the list. The bullet points better described as a map or family tree if you will, complete with legend.
So begins my occasional entry that paints a picture of my incessant worry. That problem used to be my husband's alone - exclusively. But now worry sits on my shoulders too. With help, good days will begin to trounce the bad. IF this is the burden I have to bear, I'm lucky. Lucky in love and fortunate to live in a time when support is at hand. I'm just beginning to read blogs by others among us who fight like the bitches we need to be. Now I can begin to ignore the naysayers and count on strength to be my ally. Backstory fini!
So begins my a tale of recovery, I hope. It will be jumbled at times, sort of like the synapsis of my "on-strike" brain. Funny how the word "doohickey" is my preferred noun these days. Looking forward to your advice and comments.
As always...
best,
suze
Even before approximately two years ago, gout betrayed my body and I embarked on a horrid trip. I, like so many others, hike a trail of questions. Looking for answers too long in coming.
Bastard Gout, thank God, was an isolated event. My current and recurring pain is the strangest animal I've known, gout-like and periodically unbearable as it can be. Physical therapy, on advice from my doctor truly helped - NOT. The reason for this to be explained later.
I'm a big sweet, german girl with a happy family. Head of this family, whose badge says "The ONE" but means "love", is our revered center. He's my betrothed. Sort of short and aging be damned, his eyes say it all. "I LOVE YOU!" Mil besos, mil besos, mil besos, even when he's annoyed. My tale of healing depends on his support.
His introduction under my belt, our story begins.
My beloved husband and I stared into each other's terrified eyes at the end of May of last year, having just heard the news. He had a stroke on his left side. God help us.
2011's challenging summer was appropriately punctuated with dead flowers as hospital trips consumed my days. I found myself, the diligent gardener, suddenly brutal in the neglect of my posies. My baby daddy was my focus and still, thank God, IS! We've arrived at an agreeable impasse. Resigned to a fight, t o g e t h e r.
Luckily for us his loyalty and charm saved his job after missing longer than the allowable absence. Each day of our trial - taken one at a time, just like the steps he takes. With almost no stumbles and stubbornly - one by one. Grateful for being able to eat dribble-free and to wipe when duty calls. My words, not his, he perseveres. Still, feeling free to curse like a sailor in silence, I internalized my anger as he perfected his obvious stoic resolve. You see, his preoccupation has never wavered. His concern? Not for himself but for his family, his wifey, his.
My return to the blog? Quite simply put, I need - not want - to work out the stress. Put pen to paper, dump the depression and hammer out the hassle. Questions need answers.
Yes, this is about me. My symptoms, ever-present, join me and my greatest advocate, hobbling into the doctor's office. I jokingly said, "race ya." My hobble from the pain and his, well, getting better all the time. Asked how his leg is doing, he'll tell you, "It keeps following me!" His resilience is nothing short of amazing. His support too verifies the fact that we're in this by hook or crook as a team.
My man's progress was slow and steady and admittedly requires me to bear this chronic crap in order in order to care for his needs. Pissed? Yep. Not that he needed me but that I couldn't be there more easily for him. ALL these years and ALL those wonderful meals and memories he'd selflessly given, I wanted to be there for him. Be there for him because he, a typical man, will not admit to needing help. Now for once, I could repay just a tiny bit of my gratitude.
Ours has been a long journey already and finally we decide to acquiesce to an inevitable fact. The house too big, the yard's care too taxing and our lives shorter by the day...big man on campus finally agreed. We need to move into a one-story home. Fun and family is now higher on our priority list. Pain be damned, I am determined to pack us up and PRONTO, Tonto! But that isn't easy.
The pain nor the accompanying symptoms are nothing if not dependably there. It varies in intensity but remains my shadow.
Symptoms consistent, diagnosis unsatisfactory until now, I've survived the last year with the occasional prescription of vicodin. That is one of the reasons I must, we must, find a solution to my pain. Hyper exaggerated by a million times (okay, that's an exaggeration) the pain plugs away. I resort to scheduling progress on packing. Afraid to be denied my pain relief, I take ONE pill to get at least a little work done. With my pill and three days recovery period, I pretend to be the "little train that could." Slow but methodical in progress. Setbacks seem to be less of an enemy, allowing me an occasional break in the schedule. My gears are reduced to "go" and "collapse". Just those two.
Our modern family is typical. One son lives too far away to be a practical solution to the daily rigors of "staging" and packing up the house. The other sonny boy lives nearby and tries to contribute during his busy life and is one of our 3 main helpers. Son #1, Son #2 and Son #3. The latter being our sweetheart nephew. His reputation is and always will be that of "tall, up for helping anyone and for being the totally lovable". Everybody loves him. A family friend also gives of his brain and braun. A great team, all in all.
Back to this blog's title...I listed a litany of ills on a used envelope because I was afraid I'd forget something at the doctor's office. My visit began with, "I wish I had done a PowerPoint presentation so no one goes to sleep midway!" Interjected and included on my list is a suggestion of my honey's..."why don't you just say what DOESN'T hurt? It'd be faster." (in case you're curious, it's my elbows that don't hurt) Ha.
Chuckles aside, all four of my ears (yep, deaf girl here) heard my doctor say something that just may be music to my ears. A probable diagnosis. Testing to come, I'm already somewhat relieved. NOT because I long for an autoimmune disease but because now something may actually help. And by helping me, it in turn helps my lover.
Meds adjusted...depression, pain, stress and anxiety to be addressed with Cymbalta. No more Paroxetine, a Paxil generic and Crestor also cast aside due to its reputation for delivering pain to the joints. Whaaaaaat? Gladly gone from my pill box by gully, pun intended! Temporarily anyway to see if it delivers results by omission.
So far my pain IS a little better. Apparently stress is an understated trigger for pain caused by Fibromyalgia. By lacking deep restorative sleep, the body can not and will not repair itself properly. Also, exercise doesn't help. Pain on pain not helping because insomnia deters restorative healing. When my doctor say that it's NOT all in my head, I heard music, I swear. Dramatically swelling music. A narrative of hope.
Internet research explains almost verbatim my symptoms. Really? My fatigue, the palpitations, my heart stuck to the back of my chest, the depression resulting from feeling excluded from activities, the almost unbearable pain and the anger it can jump start. Even the lack of swelling makes sense, it's not that kind of illness. Anxiety, earaches, gummy eyes, mouth sores and forgetfulness, just a few bullet points on the list. The bullet points better described as a map or family tree if you will, complete with legend.
- Red: the pain
- Green: the weapons
- Blue: the symptoms
- Yellow: the setbacks... you get the idea.
So begins my occasional entry that paints a picture of my incessant worry. That problem used to be my husband's alone - exclusively. But now worry sits on my shoulders too. With help, good days will begin to trounce the bad. IF this is the burden I have to bear, I'm lucky. Lucky in love and fortunate to live in a time when support is at hand. I'm just beginning to read blogs by others among us who fight like the bitches we need to be. Now I can begin to ignore the naysayers and count on strength to be my ally. Backstory fini!
So begins my a tale of recovery, I hope. It will be jumbled at times, sort of like the synapsis of my "on-strike" brain. Funny how the word "doohickey" is my preferred noun these days. Looking forward to your advice and comments.
As always...
best,
suze
posted by Suze at
3:26 PM
1 Comments:
You will beat this thing. I love you.
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