Tag Archives: mother

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I’m A Lucky, Lucky Lady

Last week my friend Z. came by my house with her baby girl and we just visited like (almost) normal people and watched the little munchkin play with toys and pat the dogs. I also got a package from my friend E. in the mail with all sorts of fun things to read and loads of the Extra Strength Menthol Halls lozenges I like. I also got a postcard and what looks like a year’s supply of energy supplements from my friend C. I also got a box full of organic produce from friends of ours who live nearby, two letters from my Father, an Easter care package from my Mother, a phone call from an old friend, emails from my nieces and the list goes on and on.

I was throwing myself a bit of a whaaa-I-have-no-friends pity party a few weeks ago, so it is really good to have my nose rubbed in the fact that my life is bursting at the seams with so many caring, thoughtful people that haven’t forgotten me even though I went into hiding, while this illness become my prime focus. Recently, I’ve been trying to reach out and take some chances. I’ve gotten in touch with a few people I neglected and have entertained the notion of getting a haircut or having a lunch date. I may not have the energy most days to keep up my end of the bargain when it comes to maintaining communication, but at least I know, if I can put myself out there once in a while, there will be friends and family waiting to meet me right where I am.
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Oh My Good

I have had a remarkably good four days, but my mother thought I was having a not-so-good week because my blog had mentioned how stiff and achy I was. So, to clarify for the readers and for myself when I look back at this post months from now: “good” means the exhaustion, discomfort and pain are bearable – are livable-with. It’s not what I used to be pre-ME, but it’s doable. Billions of people live joyful, fulfilling lives with these issues.

My baseline at the moment is constant fatigue, muscle aches and stiffness, the latter being worst in the morning. I always have pain – mostly in my neck and lower back, the bottom of my spine, and the back of my hips – that whole “hinge” area. I always feel like I have a slight cold. Often this feels like full-blown flu, but, on good days, just a wee head cold without a cough.

Good means I’m not too crippled to move by muscle pain or viral chills or the thickness of inflamed fever. I’m not rendered a squinting, grimacing statue from noise and light intensifying a skull-cracking headache. Good means I can stand up and stoop over, I can talk and interact – not long and not too heartily, but with minimal effort for short periods of time. Good means I feel stronger. This, I’ve discovered, is vital. Not stronger as in muscle strength – it’s shocking how physically weak I’ve become – but stronger in that I could and can handle things better. Just a slight increase in my overall fortitude – as if I could lose sleep and be okay… Or make a meal or have an argument or deal with a (small) emergency and be okay.

It’s a small shift, but it’s freeing because it gives me confidence and hope. It’s the first step towards laughing with gusto, animatedly talking to more than one person at a time, playing with nieces and nephews, hiking, running, dancing, singing… Good means, in this moment, overall I feel happy.

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Update

My friend asked why she hadn’t heard from Elizabeth in a while, so I thought I’d give a quick update. The good news is, my sleep continues to improve. It is a goddamn miracle. I cannot tell you how poor my sleep has been my whole life and this last year was like someone was intentionally torturing me. I was in bed more than ever, but sleeping less than ever. Unfortunately, I was awake in bed alone, for those of you that might think “in bed but not sleeping” is some euphemism for sex. As you may remember, I have posted sleep graphs from my Zeo that show nights with either huge chucks of “awake” through the night or I wake up over and over again, interrupting the regular, beautiful sleep cycle. The sleep study said my brain woke up 49 times an hour. Maybe, if I got hooked up to all those sensors again, I would still have waking brain activity of which I’m not aware, but I doubt it would be bad. For weeks after my last post about sleep, I was getting about 7 1/2 to 7 3/4 hours a night. The last 5 nights I have slept between 8 and 9 hours each night. But the best part is, the last few nights I have only woken up a few times ~ 2 or 3. My god, that’s bliss. Imagine turning off the light and, 9 1/2 hours later, you’ve had 9 hours sleep. WhawhAAT? This was last night:

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I still don’t know what changed besides drinking tart cherry juice, so, although it has a high sugar content, I will continue to drink it each night with dinner. My real theory, though, is that my sleep is a product of the same thing that has caused me not to write a blog in a while: a quieter mind. When my brain won’t turn off, I want to write everything I think and I never feel peaceful enough to drift into slumber. So, maybe it’s my daily meditation or maybe I’m just tired of the fight, but this is life now and I think I’ve found a tiny bit of quiet. No doctor is going to make a miraculous discovery and this will not be a quick process. I have to rest. Full stop.

Unfortunately, the sleep has not helped my waking symptoms. I’ve actually been feeling worse this past week than I have since December 26th. My pain, achiness and stiffness has increased and my energy has declined. After having virtually no headache for about a week, it came back a few days ago. Wow, does that make a difference in my mood. I can still feel pretty upbeat and functional with all the other symptoms, but the headache decimates me, renders me silent and grimacing. “Decimate” technically means only destroying a tenth of something, right? What would be, say, half of something? Headaches quintimate me? Or septimate me? Would that be destroying 70% of me? Much better.

My Mom told me something that has kept me going lately. In one of the hundreds of articles I sent her, she read that if you are without pain for even one day, there is hope that you can be permanently pain-free. I do not hold out hope for pain-free, but that little gem of information has made me think that there could come a time when there are more pain-free days than crippled-and-crying days.

I’ll leave you all with good news. My period came and went and I didn’t have to take a single painkiller. It wasn’t painless by any means, but it was tolerable. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the new diet, maybe it’s all the supplements. Also, I am seeing a new doctor this week. The universe sort of conspired to introduce me to him, so I’m heeding the hint and trying one. more. specialist. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Gratitude: For painless days that allow me to laugh and for good nights’ sleep.

irish proverb

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January 1st, 2013

2012 was the worst year of my life. I realise that is not a very festive and celebratory way to start a new year’s post, but it’s the truth. Having said that, however, I know that if this past year has been my worst, I have been extremely fortunate and had a very blessed life.

On January 1st 2012, I wrote an eight page-long goodbye letter to my husband which included all the details of our online accounts, passwords, paperwork etc., things with which I have always dealt. It also laid out my thoughts about my funeral and asked him to make sure to use my savings to pay for my family and E. to travel from Ireland, if needed. Really morbid stuff.

Thank you for your love, kindness, caretaking, honesty, patience… You gave me everything I’ve ever wanted in a friend, a partner, a husband. I am so lucky…

I had never experienced anything like what I was going through and I didn’t think I’d come through it. At the time, I had been diagnosed with malaria. Never did it occur to me, if I did survive, that I’d still be sick a year later. Never did it occur to me that I might be sick for years and years to come. I work every minute of every day to get better and that is what I will continue to do. Every day, in so many ways, I try to help myself heal:

I wake up slowly, gather my strength, set my intention for the day. I open my blinds so moisture doesn’t collect on the window panes, I turn on my air purifier so it can work its unseen magic during the day. I wash my mouth guard, cpap mask and machine parts ~ yes, every day. I brush my teeth sitting down. I wash my face, pick off the leftover adhesive (from the tape I put over my mouth at night) and apply a calendula cream that helps my skin heal. I put my dry eye drops in and use my antihistamine nasal spray. I make tea with stevia and soy creamer (no sugar, splenda or dairy allowed anymore) and take my first supplements of the day with filtered water (the top rated (cheap) filter by Consumer Reports). I check the temperature and the humidity in the house. My body has no concept of comfortable anymore. I could be feverish for no reason or freezing in the heat. Or sweating face, but icy toes.

I work on the computer for a bit, sitting in front of a light box. Breakfast is a smoothie with flax, berries, and walnuts or homemade granola with fruit and almond milk. I seem to have completely conquered my hypoglycemia by switching from rice milk to almond milk and adding fiber to my tea. Afternoon beverage is decaf green tea, per the Good Doc’s orders. I do any chores I can manage. I try to meditate three times a day. This is forced rest… or preemptive rest. Regardless of how I feel, at the very least, I lie down twice each day for an hour, usually at 1pm and 6pm. I have a room ~ not my bedroom ~ where I have peace, privacy, a small futon, a wedge pillow, blanket, eye mask, headphones and CDs. These meditations are the only reason I can get through the day. If I don’t recharge, flat on my back with my eyes closed, I will start to deteriorate: get shaky, slow down cognitively, become achy, stiff and develop a headache.

yoga room

In between 2pm and 4pm, if I’m up to it, I do laps around my house with the dogs. I’m currently not up for more than 4 times around ~ about 400 steps. I wear a pedometer all day, every day.  I am diligent about keeping my core temperature up. For those few minutes outside, I put on my heated vest, hat, scarf, gloves, Uggs. I never want to go back to the debilitating chills of this time last year. If I feel I have some strength, I do every little thing possible to “exercise” so my muscles don’t decondition any more. I squeeze the squeeky dog ball in both hands. I slowly and carefully scoop dog poop. I focus as many miles away as possible ~ to the skyline or horizon ~ since I spend so long indoors only looking six feet ahead. I breathe deeply ~ consciously ~ to get my dose of outside air. I notice everything: planes tracing lines in the sky… the sounds of our neighbours… plants, birds, trees that I never paid much attention to before. And I am grateful for every step, always silently thanking the universe for keeping me on my feet, for allowing me to have the health I still have.

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Even if I can barely move, I try to stretch my muscles as often as possible. I soak in an Epsom salt bath (2 cups) for no more than 30 minutes (I am told any more than that and the badness leeches back into your muscles) and then I do gentle floor stretches, as well as my neck traction. I dry my hair sitting down. My lunches and dinners are predictable, boring and really pretty disgusting after months and months on end. No grains of any kind besides oats, no eggs, dairy, legumes, potatoes, tomatoes or cod. No msg, obviously, and I’m desperately trying to cut down on sugar. I add turmeric to virtually everything I eat. If I had the energy to cook, I would be making the most creative and tasty dishes, but, as it is, I rely on my husband and quick snacks: apples, nuts etc. Basically, I eat enough to take my supplements. I drink two tablespoons of tart cherry juice with dinner every night and usually drink ginger tea last thing before bed. I don’t watch tv later than 9:30pm, I practice good sleep hygiene and I never get to sleep later than 11:30pm.

My year felt like one third survival, one third denial, and one third a carefully constructed balancing act. A tightrope walk with no end in sight and any time you fall off, you don’t go back to the beginning ~ you go back much further than where you started. So, you don’t know how far the rope goes in front of you or behind you. Now: Turn that tightrope so it’s vertical. You aren’t walking forward, you’re clinging on with your hands, trying to climb upwards into the clouds… an abyss below you. Just one hand over the other. Don’t look up, don’t look down. This moment, this breath.

Holding onto a rope

2012 Wrap Up:

January: Saw endocrinologist; Mom visited.
February: Saw infectious disease doctor; started seeing a therapist; started meditating.
March: Saw rheumatologist, saw allergist, saw gastroenterologist; started low fat diet; changed birth control pills; eliminated pain killers.
April: Saw naturopath; started gluten-free and dairy-free diet; my friends’ sweet baby A. was born ~ the highlight of this year.
May: Saw second infectious disease doctor; Mom visited; stopped working and left career.
June: Saw optometrist; got CT scan.
July: By best friend E. visited; my sister got a new puppy (my new nephew); dear friend of the family’s, M.B., died.
August: Started seeing the Good Doctor; saw chronic fatigue “specialist”; started automimmune elimination diet.
September: Started acupuncture; saw sports medicine doctor; had sleep study done; Dad visited; became housebound.
October: Got brain and cervical spine MRI, Mom visited; brother T. visited.
November: Saw obgyn; started using cpap.
December: Brother A. visited; sister and J. visited for Christmas; dear old friend, D.H., died far too young.

This was my year. I know there is a big world out there with a lot bigger things going on, but this was my year. Doctors, tests, symptoms, setbacks, births, deaths, revelations about myself, revelations about our bodies, grief, joy, fear and more grief. And I know: it could have been much, much worse. What I see when I look at this is: my brothers, sister, mother, father and best friends all came to visit me. They journeyed across the city, country or world to my house to support me. In doing so, they healed me. I am very lucky. I am very blessed. With this kind of support, I can be the rock again. I will feel like I can weather any storm again. Maybe that’s what the new year will bring. I will notice everything, consider anything, expect something, but fear nothing. Welcome, 2013. You’re going to look very different from last year.

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Forces pulling from the center of the earth again…

My Mother, in an effort to give advice on things that could help my mood and mental fortitude, pointed out that there is never music playing in the house and reminded me that my number one rule of life, written in fading marker on an A4 page taped to her kitchen wall, was: NEVER BE WITHOUT MUSIC. I glowered at her. “I’m too exhausted to go downstairs and find a cd.” “It might help bring some joy back into your life”, she suggested. I went back to grimacing silently in pain.

A little later, she tried again: “You could even listen to music on your phone?” “Yeah, I do, but it just makes me emotional and I’m trying NOT to be emotional. Every time I’m upset, my symptoms get worse. Every time my symptoms get worse, I get more upset. So, I’m staying away from music.” “Not all music will make you upset…”, she said. I think I growled in reply.

Four hours later, I’m alone in the house. I go out to the front porch and watch the warm, beautiful October day. I realise I haven’t actually listened to any music since September 13th when I was at the dog park feeling so good, before the Crash Of The Year. So, I put my headphones on and plugged into my “Guilty Pleasures” playlist. It’s the poppy or hip-hoppy, beat-heavy, fun stuff that makes me feel empowered — like I can do backflips, like I’m one of the stars of Grease/Fame/Glee, like I’m young and strong and athletic. And then… I was smiling. I was swaying. I was elevated. And, even though I knew I couldn’t, I was itching to run, to dance, to sing at the top of my lungs, to compete in the Olympics… And I had the thought: Fuck you, disease. I got this. You think a little pain and exhaustion is gonna do me in? You think daily flu will break me? I’m made of sterner stuff than that. You don’t get to ruin my life. I’ve got nieces and nephews to watch grow up. I’ve got dogs that need to be played with.

It feels like weeks since I felt a little bit of that strength, confidence, happiness. Mother always knows best.