In the End: It Just Is

Pain
I know little about the physiology of pain - the neural pathways, the synapses, the receivers and transmitters of pain signals - some sense, some medical mumbo-jumbo. I understand a little more about the psychology of pain, acute and chronic, which both aids and hinders us humans along the path of illness and hopefully, wellness.

It's possible we humans do not possess identical pain processing plants. It's certain that we humans perceive, and therefore, feel pain on radically different scales of agony. That we perceive pain differently is widely accepted. Why we perceive pain differently is universally questioned.

And so we are left with this: pain is relative. There can be no hierarchy of pain because there is no constant template from which to establish a frame or point of reference.

The pain you perceive to feel is as real as and as *painful* as you believe it to be. You are your brain and your body. You cannot escape this simple fact. You cannot compare yourself to another or your affliction to another's. You are not stronger or weaker or braver or more cowardly than other sufferers. You just are. Your pain just is. Or isn't.

Medical practitioners and caregivers know this - they are willing to treat and mitigate your pain without judgment. Enlist them when you need to and discharge then when you don't.

As I've written: In the end, it is only you. You, and what you can bear.

Illness
"There is a psychology to any illness, whether you have chicken pox or a broken leg. There is a particular psychology to a progressive illness or disease, one in which the pain, loss of mobility, and exhaustion are all framed in a race against the clock. The matter of you walking or not, or living or not, is a matter of time and timely treatment and, occasionally, of timely miracles." So I once wrote.

I don't profess to know much about illness on the whole but even in my short journey, I fell victim to the sudden sense of isolation that envelops one when sick or injured. We've all had a bad cold and spent a sick day or two in bed with tissues and a book. Remember the feeling you had when you eventually showered and dressed and went back to work and life. It seemed like you had been away for ages. It may have only taken a few minutes or perhaps an entire morning before you slid back into your routine, but for a short time, you felt the tiny stab of knowledge that the world marched along without you. Unaware and unconcerned.

For those with lengthy or terminal illnesses or injuries, you begin to feel like a ghost in the outside world, neither fully present, nor completely absent.

The reasons for your phantom existence are multi-fold but mainly it is because you feel terrible and unable. Participating in regular life might highlight or antagonize your disability. Worse, you might utter a complaint or an audible moan of pain. You want neither to be a martyr nor be viewed as one.

You sometimes believe and behave as if it is easier to stay home, to be alone, to not have to ask, explain, or negotiate what should be simple things, like small talk in the grocery store or ladies' baking night. Of course, this is what life is - but it suddenly seems so daunting, and tiring.

Illness is a state of mind and body.

Support
Everyone has a support network. They may or may not be individuals or organizations that you automatically identify as such. It may be your spouse but it could also be your aerobics class or your dog.

Even your standard definition of support may be unrecognizable. It might be in the form of drug therapy, aromatherapy, or laugh therapy. It might be more concrete, like a buying an automatic can opener when the task finally becomes insurmountable.

You may desperately seek out support, reject it outright, grudgingly accept it, or fall into it, as I did.

My wise advice: When any such supportive form begins to make itself recognizable to you, embrace it and surround yourself with it. Don't abuse it but don't feel guilty about drawing strength and assistance from it either, whenever necessary.

Me
There's no great epiphany here. I haven't seen the end of the world. I've just explored more terrain and foreign topography.

Some clichés: I am learning how to be grateful, more patient, less judgmental, more helpful, lighter, freer.

I am learning that cold, damp winters will be hard. I am a 40-year old with the hands of an arthritic octogenarian.

I am learning that I can bear more than I realize but not as much as I thought.

I am learning that there are many causes and reasons for a person's appearance and behaviour.

I am learning that everyone bears some pain in some form.

I am learning that good and bad can come at anytime in equal or unequal measure and that *fair* is a myth.

I am learning how to age.

I am learning how to accept.

I am learning It Just Is:
(Summertime in England - Van Morrison. I know Van doesn't approve of this whole file-sharing thing, so I hope he'll forgive me this one time. Long before KD, this was one of my favorite-all-time-celebrate-life-with-wisdom songs. Wise man, Van. It's 15 minutes long - close your eyes and just be.)

In Emergency - Part 2

I've already forgotten the name of my angel. Of all the things I can recall of these days, her name eludes me. Her essence does not. She swept aside my torturers with a quick word and a firm hand - her needle at the ready. She is gently brushing the hair from my forehead as the morphine seeps into my bloodstream. She calls me dear. And sweetie.

I do not know how I arrived here in the hallway, on the gurney. My angel is telling me they are trying to find a doctor for me. It's just crazy here tonight. Tonight. Where did day go, I wonder. I am able to wonder. The morphine has both anchored me and allowed me to be free again. I am also aware. My gurney is opposite the doorway of a room. I can hear and see the elderly wife of an elderly man berate him. She hits him with something. Her purse I think. The morphine does not let me feel shock but I feel Eric behind me shift uncomfortably. Security is called and the wife screams obscenities as she is pulled from the room. This is more than I can fathom at this moment.

My angel is telling me that the orthopaedic surgeon on duty is in the clinic. My gurney starts moving in that direction. I know this hallway well - the "clinic" is where I have had my arm casted no less than 5 times in the last 12 months. The clinic is almost like a second home. And who should be there but John, my left- and right-hand man.

Beside John is Michael. I think. I'm pretty sure it's Michael. I'm certain he is an orthopaedic surgeon. I'm doubly certain he has just returned from Afghanistan. The pieces of his life trickle through the morphine. But who is reporting them? And why?

Michael looks so tired, already. He is reading my file. John is filling in the bits he knows. Michael leans close to me and asks me: what happened? I talk about the coming of the pain. I talk about the onslaught of the pain. He asks me what I feel now. I say numbness. He looks confused. But you can feel this, right? Yes, but it is numb. He stares at me. If it's numb then you can't feel it. I feel anger build in me. How can this be happening? It is like I am arguing with my 4-year old instead of talking to a doctor. The veil of morphine is lifting. Numb does not mean without feeling, I want to shout. Anyway, I feel fine now. I refuse to look at him.

Michael shifts some paperwork, talks into his computer mike, and instructs John to cast me again. The danger has passed. I seem ok.

John is so gentle with the gauze - my eyes thank him. Michael is talking to Eric as John lays the first strip of hot plaster on my arm. My angel has left me. There is only ice-blue and blood-red and black. The whimper comes before the scream. The scream comes from someone outside my body - I am suspended - begging Eric to help me, to make it stop. I am begging and screaming at John, at Michael, at Eric. I lose feeling in my left arm. Then my right arm, then my right leg. I can't feel either of my feet. I am going into shock. I don't comprehend this logical chain of events. I am beyond logic.

Michael calls emerg across the hall - but we discharged her from emerg to orthopaedics. Shit, I hear him say. I can't have morphine unless I've been admitted or am in Emergency. John is pushing my gurney to emerg, fast. Michael is dialing St. Paul's hospital as we cross the hallway. Incredibly, I hear him laughing. He and Dr. G are sharing some joke. Michael has just come back from Afghanistan - my little drama must pale in significance.

I catch sight of Eric's face - there is a surprising degree of control there. I am another plane now, moaning low and deeply. When my angel reappears and rushes me back into emerg, I know relief is close. I just need to be inside the emerg doors and she can give me morphine. She stops in the nearest hallway and injects me quickly. It takes no more than 30 seconds to

flood my body. I breathe.

Michael is suddenly back and, beside him, Dr. D. Dr. D speaks in the softest of voices, Hi, Fiona. how are you feeling now? My tongue is thick and slow. Tired, I reply. Dr. D is holding my arm and chatting with Eric as he gently wraps it in gauze and padding and a soft sling. This can happen sometimes, Dr. D is telling Eric. There is some talk of opening my hand up for what sounds like bloodletting, to relieve the pressure. She doesn't need a plaster cast - we'll leave it like this. Dr. D has been summoned from dinner. He is not on call.

Something is happening in this moment between me and Dr. D and Eric. It has been almost exactly a year since he refused to treat me. There is a strange reparation taking place. There is more than morphine spreading peace and light through me. Perhaps.

We arrive home some time after dinner. The house is dark. An entire day has passed. Only a single day has passed. Eric walks me to bed and the boys quietly watch me ascend the stairs. I am fine, completely and totally fine, and will only continue to get better. My pain is manageable and within a day or two requires no management at all. My cast had simply been too tight. My skin and flesh squeezed to bursting - my nerve endings raw from surgery and my pain receptors on super-charge. Small things.

	Rare Earth - I just want to Celebrate .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine