Crohn’s disease

In the Hall Closet

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

IMG_9854Don’t worry about me when I’m writing. I’m processing. I’m sharing what I’m feeling. Or what I’ve already felt. I’m reliving or retelling a moment in time. Not a perpetual state of mind. Perhaps, worry about me when I stop. When I’m silent. Apathetic. Hopeless. Without you knowing. When I’m numb. Worry about me when my feelings have gotten all clogged up in the drain of my heart or my head. When they’re packed in over time, too hard. I can’t get them out. They’re stuck. Trapped. Going nowhere.

Writing helps me. It frees me from my overthinking. Super size feeling. It breaks my pursed lips and opens my tightly crossed arms. It grabs the door handle to a closet filled with all kinds of thoughts. Life-giving kite flying thoughts and life-robbing, weighted thoughts. Pesky untrue thoughts that have the power to alienate, isolate and suffocate me. If I let them.

But I won’t.

I did for a long time. I closed my eyes. I would not peek. It was my choice to see that there was no light. I could dim or brighten my room the way that I wanted. Pretend. Escape. I built a lonely hiding spot. Nobody knew to find me.

I was afraid to open my eyes to see things the way they were. Maybe it was the kind of pitch blackness that confused me. Is it that dark or was it me, were my eyes shut so tightly? Where’s my hand? There was a thunderous sigh, a release, when I recognized that I possessed the power to open my eyes. Immediately, my perspective changed. I noticed the small crack of light from underneath the door. Then, I realized if I grabbed the handle, I could slowly open up the door and let myself out.

When another person says with their words or with their eyes that they’ve been there or felt something similar too, the light floods in. Opening up the dark hidden linen closet of his heart or her mind. It’s freeing. Like finally breathing without someone’s hands covering your mouth. Like a kite bobbing up and down on a fluffy big clouded day.

Feelings, thoughts, and worries escape. They’re not so consuming or heavy in the light. They’re less powerful, less heavy. More healing. It’s like holding your breath.
Holding your breath.
Holding your breath.
Breathe.
Exhale.
The pressure releases.

Freedom begins. The tiny yet enormous healing power to live in the way that you choose. You do have control. It’s not an illusion. You’re no magician but you fight, you learn how to escape. Those are the unpurchased gifts waiting in the cart of your mind: perseverance, hope, God’s constant presence, time and experience. After experience.

There are many hidden exits to get you out of your mind. When you discover them, remember to tromp, tromp, tromp your heavy, weary feet on your way out.

You will leave easy-to-trace tracks for yourself the next time.

You will find the door handle more quickly. You will remember to tell others you’re hiding. You will take your pen and moleskin notebook and you will write your way out.

 

Favorite Doctor Thank You note

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

IMG_9661I walked out of a new doctor’s office today with two discrete green bags. It looked like I had just bought several new pairs of shoes. Feeling all-Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” I walked out to my car. Where did I park again? I drove to the bakery because I had pre-determined my post-doctor’s appointment destiny. I told myself that I could go get a pastry and a coffee after my appointment. Yes, an incentive or grown-up prize motivator for completing a dreadful task.

I love this certain bakery because there is a kind woman who works there who accidentally shares great stories with me. I thought if she’s working today then that will be an extra prize for me. I have too many -ologists. Pulmonologist, endocrinologist, gastroenterologist, urologist. But, I do have pretty spectacular health still. I can drive myself to my appointments. And by golly, I can drive myself to the bakery following my appointments if that’s my Thursday destiny.

This past year, I received two letters in the mail. Letters from two of my different -ologists that he and she would no longer be practicing medicine at a certain location. This can be somewhat disheartening, discouraging and all-together overwhelming for an un-administrative assistant like me. I stink at meeting new doctors. I hate new patient paperwork, new doctor small talk, the waiting. The medical history. Blah. Blah. Boringdy blah. Blah.

But I got to thinking, what if doctors could send a pretty or funny or sympathetic greeting card when they left? I know they’re super busy and have a lot of patients but if they could, I thought of some meat for the card.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s me…..I’m moving. I’m leaving the practice. I’m retiring.”
“You’re a really awesome patient. I will miss our medical and non-medical talks. P.S.-Sorry for all of the waiting.”
“I’ve seen a lot of patients in those weird paper gowns, but you always looked the best.”
And so on. Oh, wait. One more.
“I wish I could fill out all the new patient paperwork for you. And fax all your records the first time you call, too.”

Ack. What if my doctor left because I never wrote him or her a proper thank-you note? I thought I should do that.

Dear Favorite Dr. or Doctor,

We, experienced patients, get rather attached to our good, old worn-in and perhaps worn-out doctors. You’re the courageous messengers of difficult-to-hear information. You’re the sympathizers, the cheerleaders, the healers, and the gardeners of hope.

You’re with us in some of our darkest, most difficult moments. And you gently help us reach the light switch with that fancy tiny rolling doctor’s stool of yours.

I keep forgetting to write you a thank you note for all that you do. Is it too late? Will you stay now?

I know that you carry your patient’s worries, fears and hopes and dreams with you in that genius brain of yours. How do you remember so much life-saving information?

Your mom must be so damn proud of you. I would have liked to know you under different circumstances, when perhaps, you weren’t wearing your work cape. But I feel honored and privileged to have someone like you taking care of a complicated person like me.

Thank you for seeing me as a “me,” not a disease or a diagnosis or a case study. Thank you for all the times you handed me one of those cheap hospital grade kleenex. Or thanks for sitting next to me on the bed when you had to deliver bad news. Thank you for doing the jobs that you could have had somebody else do. Thank you for being honest in the most respectful and delicate ways. Thank you for handling me and my precious family with compassion, patience, kindness and never-ending care.

Thank you for all of the sacrifices. Please thank your family, too. I know you have spent time away from them helping all of us. Thank you for coming back in the middle of the night. Thank you for your willingness to learn, to adapt, to grow and do the things the right way, which is rarely the easy way.

Thank you for helping me. You’re famous to me.

I will miss you.

And I would fill out the new patient paperwork a million times for a doctor like you.

Love,
Amelia

I don’t always need a self-pep talk or (several)post-doctor’s appointment treats, but today I did. Did I mention that I don’t like filling out all of that new patient paperwork? When I complete it, can I consider it a memoir of sorts? Hooray, I’m a published author. You will have to check my medical records. Boring much? Bonus: There are so many signatures that you won’t even need a signed copy.

Cheap paperback only.

Overcoming

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

IMG_9649I’ve spooned many dark nights with sadness. I’ve arm-wrestled with anger. I’ve sobbed on the bathroom floor with disappointment. I’ve had one too many drinks with resentment. I’ve hand-cuffed myself to shame. Apathy and I have stared outside my kitchen window. I’ve shared a tarnished best friend’s necklace with inadequacy. Fear has driven me home many nights.

Uncomfortable. Miserable. Trudging. Falling. Bargaining. Despising. All-consuming. Short-lived. Neverending.

I will allow you a brief cameo in my life. On my stage. In my thoughts. Then, I will close the curtain on you.

I recognize you. I’ve met you. I know exactly who you are. And what you are. You’re necessary. Yet, you’re one dimensional.

But I am not.

Goodbye for now. The unknown. My temporary struggles. I have made long term plans with peace. Joy is on my speed dial. My soul patiently holds her hand out for me. Grace knows the code to my garage door. Self-compassion opens her arms wide to hold my truths. Because I have love and mercy overflowing, I will not run dry in the midst of pain, uncertainty and my struggles. My discomfort and questions and lack of answers will not consume me. My faith will steady me.

I will be watching the setting sun before me admiring the gorgeous colors of the sky as they change every day. I will hear the giggling boy beside me. I will push on his left-sided dimple and I will point to mine. I always will be healing. I will never stop growing. As long as I am living. I will stumble. I will fall. And I will get back up again.

Struggles and strengths. They will lead me through this complicated world filled with hope.

God has never left me. He hears my sighs, my laughter and my tears. Jesus feels my pain. And He willingly fills my love tank. The Holy Spirit revives me, recharges me, inspires me. Time after time again.

I am overcoming.

My Rose

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

IMG_9083It’s perplexing to define you. But still I will mumble. I will try.
I stare at you.
I tend to you.
I’m often inconvenienced by your existence. Your constant presence.
What are you?
Are you a wound that will never heal?
Are you a beautiful yet strange rose that will always live?
Depends on the day.
Depends on the hour.
Depends on the moment.
Perhaps it also depends on my bitter intolerance or my overwhelming gratitude for you.
The life you give me.
A different life I will never know.
I should adopt you.
I should accept you.
I should spit out the hideous aftertaste. The venom left behind from the life I once imagined.
The dull life in which I envisioned lists coming true.
A boring, comfortable thoughtless existence. Barely a fingerprint. No wake left behind me.
You make me think.
You beg me to feel.
Your thorns protect me.
You are my rose.
I can’t show you to the world but I know you exist.
Your beauty is disguised in loss, uncertainty, mortality and pain.
You are fragile. And so am I.
Your truth lives in the eyes of many.
The ones I see while others pass by.
The ones I can’t stop thinking about.
The ones I can’t stop feeling for.
All of the shame made me wiser.
All of the pain made you stronger.
You will never die.
Because of you,
I will always live.

Lithotripsy Semi-truck

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

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“The Crohn’s is probably enough.”

A kind and sympathetic nurse conversed with me in (a semi truck)* lithotripsy procedure while my doctor figured out the best way to blast my sneaky large kidney stones. This nurse was right. The Crohn’s disease is probably enough. The extra specialists that I have added over the years sometimes feel like too much. The Crohn’s makes me prone to lung problems. The Crohn’s makes me prone to kidney stones. The Crohn’s depletes me physically yet somehow continues to recharge me emotionally and spiritually.

The Crohn’s also makes me prone to seeing the raw beauty amidst the unfair pain. The Crohn’s makes me more prone to routine feelings of overwhelming love and gratefulness for my concrete support system. The Crohn’s makes me prone to testing my faith and wearing my emotions on the outside, along with my bag. The Crohn’s makes me prone to being authentically myself because it’s too exhausting on my already-tired body to fake my way through life.

One of my boys worried about the medicine they would give me for my lithotripsy procedure. A few weeks ago, he wanted to learn how to do the moonwalk. We watched videos, listened to songs and talked about Michael Jackson’s life. Which also lead to a conversation on how he died. And so a week later, my son asked this question after he made this connection all by himself  (kids are so damn smart)

“Mama, will you get the same medicine Michael Jackson got?”

Ahhhh. I know this boy’s thinking all too well. An eight year old boy shouldn’t have to worry about his mama dying in a kidney stone procedure. We talked and I told him, “I will only be getting a little bit of medicine to help it not hurt. There will be nurses and a doctor to take care of me. Michael Jackson took way too much medicine.” I asked him if he was still worried a few days later. “No, cause you’re just getting a little medicine…for thirty minutes.”

I’ve had ongoing days and weeks and months of kidney pain. Some days are way better than others. On the hard days, it’s been me telling my boys too many times to count, “I can’t play right now. My back is hurting too badly.” I’m hopeful that I will get relief soon though I have unexpectedly acquired a pretty high tolerance for pain. Thankfully, I possess a stubborn, competitive spirit that keeps fighting back when one of the many side effects of my disease challenges me.

I’m convinced that yesterday my strong and worried mind kept me alert during my procedure, despite the valium, versed and fentynl, because I wanted to reassure my deep thinking and feeling son. Particularly, I didn’t want to die on a day that I had made the worst gluten-free waffles for breakfast. The. Worst. Though due to the nasty waffles, the breakfast dance party was pretty awesome.

After my procedure, all three of my boys came up to my room to check on me when they got home. They get me. Every single time. They have an abnormal amount of compassion for their ages, most likely learned through watching their daddy lovingly take care of me when I’m wounded. One of them brought me water and a pain pill. One of them asked if I would be able to come down and watch a movie and saved me a perfect spot, right next to him. He kept making sure he knew which side of me was hurting. The sweetest.

I woke up feeling pretty good today. I’m a little sore but it’s totally bearable without the obnoxious pain meds. I have to do these exercises where I drink a lot of water and then lay on an incline to help get the broken kidney stones out. My dog wanted to maul my hair, lick my face and then finally gave up and decided to lay down next to me. Moral support-ish. I’m not sure if his presence will help move the stones but it always helps my spirit to have a friend willing to hang out with me, right side up or upside down.

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As always, thanks for reading. Thanks for sending your prayers for my spirit to stay positive and hopeful. Thanks for supporting me and my family in too many ways to count. Thanks for caring, for dinner, for worrying, for checking in, or for talking with my husband or helping with our boys.

*Yes. Seriously. Who knew? Not me. I was raised up in my wheelchair onto a traveling semi-truck. The truck is cost effective in that it goes around from location to location doing lithotripsy procedures out back. Literally, out back, in a semi-truck. Crazy. My husband laughed when we arrived in the office and the nurse told us. Then, he didn’t believe her so I asked him to go take a picture of the truck. Here is living proof that you can pretty much do anything out of a truck. Anything. Buy tacos. Zap kidney stones. The mobile truck industry is strong. Just set your mind to it. Get going.

Healing Crohn’s Disease

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I’ve had Crohn’s disease for nearly twenty years. Even, at times, when the disease is in remission physically, it never lies dormant in my thoughts, emotions, or in my soul. It alters how I live my life in both the beautiful positive ways and the ugly and debilitating ways.

A chronic disease can be completely overwhelming at times. It can feel like being trapped in a prison cell. It never goes away. That piece of knowledge can haunt you and capture you. It can  make you feel alienated, confused and depressed sometimes. It can feel like nobody truly understands. Maybe they don’t.

I’ve had to get creative and find ways to escape the lifelong sentence of my chronic disease. I wasn’t made to be imprisoned. I force myself to look outside, make a plan and know that I will do great things once I’m free. I find ways to sneak past the warden, who I’ve  gotten to know pretty damn well over the years. It’s myself. No matter how many things in my body get scarred, altered, rearranged, or broken, I will forever hold the key to my freedom. Resilience, perseverance, humor, faith and hope help me dig the tunnel out. Sometimes, I force myself to follow the tiniest glimpse of light.

Healing is an ongoing process.

Healing is acknowledging my fears but not inviting them in for dinner. Healing is exterminating shame. Healing is letting myself feel the weight of it all: the unfairness, pain, loss, anger, and sadness. Healing is sharing my story and listening to other’s stories. Healing is giving myself the same extraordinary compassion I so freely give to others. Healing is forgiveness. Healing is changing, growing and evolving into a different person. Healing is allowing the hundreds of disease-related experiences to affect me. Healing is granting myself the permission to be different. Healing is acceptance.

Healing is always searching. Healing is often found in helping others. Healing is possessing a willingness to go back the opposite way through the tunnel I’ve dug, back to the darkness, to the prison cell of another. Healing is holding another’s hand, looking into another’s eyes. Healing is seeing a glimpse of myself in a hurting child, a lonely mother and a dependent elderly patient.

Healing is a gift that I open over and over again throughout my journey.

Healing is finding and seeing the beauty in the closing of wounds or watching the water run over the bright red flesh sutured outside of my abdomen. Healing is standing outside and staring up at the mesmerizing flight patterns of the barn sparrows. Healing is hearing my children’s laughter, holding their hands and answering their innocent questions.

Healing is my husband’s relentless, supportive, unconditional proud love for me. Healing is loving him.

Healing is everywhere.

Healing is found in accepting encouragement, love, support, bear hugs and help from those who surround me.

Crohn’s disease is healing.

I am healing.

 

 

 

I’m sorry, Brownies

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

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I’ve learned that when the hummingbirds migrate for the winter, brownies are my best friend. You know the Ghiradelli kind, of course, the ones with triple chocolate chips. They are unlike any other. Warm. Gooey. Messy in all the right ways. But lately, I feel I like I purposely lost my half to our best friends necklace. I’m sorry, Brownies. We have to friend break up because I learned that I have an amoeba infection. Apparently, the microscopic amoeba bastards like sugar. A lot. It appears that I have been providing them with the perfect environment for an orgy of sorts. They have been getting it on like rabbits. Or amoeba, I suppose. I don’t want my body to be a fancy vacation rental home for amoeba whose credit card is declined. I don’t want the pain of cramping, the annoyingness of diarrhea, sleeplessness and fatigue that amoeba tend to carry in their duffel bags.

So, I have now been eating a no sugar diet for ten days. I think. It’s not like I am counting the days or remembering every dessert that I have had to no longer leave room for in my belly. You see, for a girl like me, dinner has always been the home-town opening act of sorts. And well, dessert has always been the headliner. My Justin Timberlake.

Ever since I was a kid, my brain focused on one thing. “Must. Get. Dessert.” Do whatever you must do to get dessert. I would sneak food in my pockets, under my napkins, in my mouth (to go spit out in the toilet) and so on. One time, I remember cramming some food under the coffee mug at a Cracker Barrel restaurant on a family road trip because, “if you don’t eat your dinner, you don’t get dessert.” I should probably write an apology letter, decades later, to the waitress who had to clean that up. But, did I get dessert? You bet.

There are only a few sugary things I have missed out on this past ten days. Most of which, I have strangely chosen to make from scratch for my family. Similar to the weird and addicting trend to watch somebody play with toys on Youtube, I have found some amount of comfort in watching others eat sugary foods. I am also pretty competitive so I have inner dialogue with the amoeba folk. “You think I can’t make chocolate chip cookies without eating one? You’re on, amoeba bitches.”

Then, I show them who is boss. Self control, I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever. Once upon a time I was falling in love, now I’m only falling apart.

There’s nothing I can do. It’s a total eclipse of the heart.

It’s me. Not them. I’m in charge. It’s my body. And my body belongs to me. The party is over, sugar addicts.

I thought I should jot down my sugar diary lodged in my memory into a bullet format:

  • I have baked brownies which is my go-to dessert move. But this next one was new, I made homemade caramel sauce for said brownies. Then, I scooped ice cream. Brownie sundaes. Duh.
  • A few days later, I made chocolate chip cookies. Holy hell. Do you know how hard it is to NOT taste-test the batter? Thank goodness, my five year old could do it for me. I should have YouTubed it.
  • To celebrate Mardi Gras, I made two cinnamon King cakes. We had friends over so there could be an even bigger crowd for me to watch eat the cake. Maybe I have a problem.
  • Later in the week, I thought we should use those free Lamar’s donuts coupons. And I may be in withdrawal and hearing things due to the lack of sugar, but I am pretty sure I heard several of my favorite donuts crying behind the glass. I turned my back on them.
  • Oh man, at a family birthday party, I even had the self control to skip out on my mom’s homemade strawberry cake with it’s best friend in tow, Costco vanilla ice cream.
  • Typically, when I pick up laundry in my boys’ rooms, I usually snag a piece or two of their candy (don’t get all judgey. It’s kind of like I imagine them giving me a tip in candy form for doing their laundry. “Thanks Mom, for picking up those clothes right next to the hamper. Here’s a snack size twix bar.”) I haven’t eaten any of their candy. In ten days. Doing laundry really sucks now. Maybe my husband will accidentally leave a five dollar bill in his jeans pocket. A girl can dream.
  • Enough of these bullets. This is getting more sad than I intended.

The point is, if I must have one, that it’s really hard to change behavior, make sacrifices, stand out or do things differently. It’s challenging to alter the way we think, feel and act. Eating is a huge part of our lives. Physically. Emotionally. Socially. Spritually. We plan our next meal, think about food, indulge in food and perhaps, as I have learned about myself, over-indulge in food. I have had my momentary pity parties, but for the most part, I have kept a great attitude because I truly feel better. Just don’t tell Brownies yet. It has helped tremendously that I have a supportive husband and sweet kids to cheer me on. Stevia, (the only sugar substitute I have approval to use) has not helped. That stuff is just nasty. I will take my coffee black, thank you very much.

When my 21 days of eating and drinking a no sugar diet are done, I hope to stay in tune and conscious of my sugar intake because I think it’s a healthy practice for my body, mind and soul.

In breaking fickle best friend news, my current new best friend is Bengal Spice tea. Celestial Seasonings doesn’t play around when they make their tea. They must have people on sugar-free diets in mind. All the flavor, no sugar. No caffeine either. Say what? Get ya some.

Undressed Emotions

~ Amelia ~ 4 Comments

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I guess I will get my emotions dressed up for you. You seem to handle them better with make-up on. All nice and pretty and seemingly unaffected by the storm of life happening around me. I don’t like to pretend but I can’t handle the pain of my feelings being used against me. So, I will disguise them in humor or unrealistic optimism and perhaps a bit of exhausted joy just for you. Then, you will feel better about me. And my diseases.

Every day I wake up, in the middle of the night, like tonight, and I live my life with diseases that let their presence be known. Always. Every single day. I don’t forget that I have them. Ever. My body won’t let me and neither will my heart and mind. That’s the definition of chronic. But I make a conscious decision daily: I choose to rise above the pain, the frustrations, the inconveniences, and the disabilities. It’s an extremely delicate balancing act which is difficult because I’ve always been a bit clumsy. If I talk about it too much, I’m perceived as letting the disease control me or define me. If I don’t talk about it all, I’m somehow resilient yet I feel ashamed, dishonest and like I’m denying myself of tiny, yet powerful everyday kind-of luxuries that I grant to those whom I love. When I say luxuries, I mean vulnerability, compassion, grace, forgiveness and honesty.

Most days, if you looked in on my life, you would never know the burdens that I carry. Because I probably don’t want you to. I don’t want your pity, your hopeless looks or your unintentional alienation. I also don’t want to feel so damn different that I become the chameleon who is awkwardly late to adjust to her new surroundings. I know I’m different. But I also believe that, thankfully, we all are. There’s no possible way that nearly twenty years of chronic disease cannot impact your physical, mental and emotional well-being. It affects who you are, how you relate to others and all the ways that you live your life.

If I show you or tell you about a horrible experience or a day that will make you want to cry, it’s because I trust you to handle my disease in a dignifying way. Or perhaps I’m willing to sacrifice a bit of my pride or privacy in hopes that you will grow in your understanding, compassion or sensitivity to others around you. I’m not trying to gain attention to boost my ego. But is it helpful when people who I value encourage me? Yes. Especially in the moments when I’ve been wounded so deeply that I’m tempted to never speak of this disease again.

I will pull myself back up again and remind myself that oftentimes I speak for a group whose voice has been muffled or lost or ignored. Or misunderstood.

I will write for the mothers who are too damn tired because I have strength in this moment. I will write for the daughters who are scared and hopeless and feel excluded. I will write for the boys and men who have been told they should keep fighting yet that they’re not supposed to cry. I will write for anybody who has ever been momentarily bullied by life. I will write for all those who feel the shivering, aching presence of grief. I will always write because the light, the good, and the extraordinary capabilities of the human spirit triumph all of the shit. Time and time again.

Life is rarely a bowl full of cherries but that doesn’t mean that it still can’t be something pretty great.

I guess I have changed my mind. And my heart. Again.

I will not dress up my emotions and feelings to make them prettier or easier for you to handle. They are real. Raw. Truthful. Difficult. They are joyful. They are powerful. And they are practically impossible to conceal. I spent many years pretending and hiding and being truly myself to only a handful of people. Fear had a tight grip on my shoulders. I didn’t fully trust God’s beautiful awesome power to use the bad to cast a spotlight on the good. Thankfully, I have adapted and evolved over the past twenty years. God continues to perfectly place people in my life who fill me and strengthen my soul with hope.

The beautiful, rare and unexpected gifts that accompany pain and chronic illness will always loosen the ever-present restraints. I breathe easier with an adjusted perspective, overwhelming gratefulness, a heightened awareness of mortality, and the undeniable presence of being surrounded by unconditional love. Thank God for the camouflaged gifts and for all of those who graciously give my heart more space to grow through it all.

 

Nobody Understands Land

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

It’s a dark and lonely land. You don’t go there often because you know that not much good comes out of even a brief visit there. It’s totally quiet in the house. After bedtime. Outside your window, you can hear the crickets and locusts talking nonstop to the moon but that’s about all.

It’s nighttime.

You’ve somehow managed to make it through another day, but you’re so tired. More like exhausted. You desperately need rest. You crave sleep because your body keeps borrowing calories from itself to fight the diseases. Your diseases.

You let yourself think about it momentarily. Living with chronic illness. Even when the physical symptoms subside, the emotional and mental drain persist. The disabilities you think you disguise so well in attempts to not gain pity or unsolicited attention, worry or that look in another’s eyes.

But tonight, you let go. You give yourself the freedom to temporarily think about all of the hardships. The many ways your life is different, more difficult. How even now in the dark, by yourself, you’re afraid to take the deep breaths that you need because you may start coughing. Damn lungs. Then, your guts will ache. Damn guts.

Your sad late night thinking helps you catch the red-eye flight. Destination: “Nobody Understands Land.” You’re on the plane. Without flight attendants. All alone.

You arrive.

Hello, there.

Welcome to “Nobody Understands Land.”

Only nobody is there to greet you. It does not feel like an all-inclusive vacation. Or a romantic get-away. It feels cold. Empty. Desolate. It feels like you’re standing in an uncomfortable place. A place where your thoughts and feelings chose to go. But strangely, your weary body knew better. You don’t have a jacket. Big surprise: all of your luggage got lost.

Everyone you were traveling with must have hopped on a different plane. A plane that you could have caught a long time ago before your life changed forever. Before you got sick.

Your life is different now. From all of theirs.

Tonight, you’re right. Nobody understands the pain of living with the daily physical reminders of your fragility. Your broken guts. Your struggling lungs. Your twisting kidneys. And all of the other parts that ache or quietly whimper. Nobody could possibly understand the isolation associated with the millions of different directions your diseased thoughts can go.

Yet, somehow their favorite guilty pleasure and escape is, “Nobody Understands Land.”

Only, it feels hopeless there. It should never be a final stop. A brief lay-over might be okay. A place to sit for a moment. “Alonely,” as one of your boys might say. You stop, sit down. You think and think until you feel a tapping on your shoulder. That nudging. Oh. God interrupts you, picks you up and carries you to catch your flight back home. As you’re in God’s arms, you look around. Ahhhh. You see. It’s not empty. It’s not so dark anymore. There are others. Tons of others. All of them are looking down as they hold their heads in their hands. You can’t leave yet, you need them to know too. They are not so different. They are not all alone. You see them. You need them to see you too. You jump out of God’s arms to tell them that you understand. Because you do.

Every single time, He gets you out of “Nobody Understands Land.” Because it’s not true.

Somebody always understands. Somebody sits in the chair and aches right next to you. Perhaps a different physical hurt but somehow the same feeling. A universally understood hurt. Empathy can be real. There’s always someone somewhere who gets it. Someone who truly understands or wants to try and understand. Someone who feels your pain, recognizes the pain in your eyes and wants to take it all away. But since they cannot, they sit next to you. Holding your hand so you can feel their presence or so that they can feel yours.

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You are not alone. You never have been. You never will be.

Somebody always understands.

Kidney Stones

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

Awwwww. How cute. What a kind and polite anatomically correct use of medical terminology. Stones are fun for kids and grown-ups a like to hold and collect. And kidneys, aren’t those your pee makers? Well, I have got news for you, when one of those sleeping little “kidney stones” wakes up and decides to go on a road trip, aka fly the kidney coup, they become, “mother fuckers.” That’s what us stoners call them on the street. I just made that up. I don’t have a support group of “stoners” that I ran this blog by first.

If you’ve ever had a mother fucker, you know what I’m talking about. You feel me. You got me. 100%. Solidarity.

Because there is just no nice way to put into pleasing-for-your-conservative-grandma’s ears the amount of pain they cause. Trust me. I’ve experienced a crud ton of pain in my life, too. I always think it’s funny when someone reports on a pain scale of 1-10 that they are a “10.” You’re a 10? Really? You’re so cute. The only problem is you don’t kindly say a 10, you fuckin’ look a 10. You moan. You’re on the ground. You think it’s absolutely ridiculous that someone is trying to get you to “rate your pain” when you’re obviously dying. How fuckin rude. Actually, you feel like you’re in enough pain that maybe somebody should just go ahead and kill you. Yep. That kind of pain.

When a mother fucker aka “a kidney stone” decides to head to the next rest stop, aka your bladder, you can’t deep breathe. You can’t visualize anything except a cruel heartless person repeatedly stabbing you with his shady pocket knife. Over and over in your left lower back region. And he just won’t stop. There is no negotiating even though you have told him that you don’t carry cash and your bank account has “insufficient funds.” Why would you tell him that anyways? That’s too much information for a robber. This cruel asshole will not take “no” for an answer. He is just going to keep on stabbing you. Don’t try to lay down. Get back up. Nope. Hunch over. Yell “FUCK!” Get in some weird unspoken, awkward yoga pose. Just try your hardest to NOT feel like you’re dying. Even though you know you are. Good thing you got that life insurance. Did you mail the check yet?

Drink water. Throw up. Cuss. Pray and promise God you will do anything if he will just make the son-of-a-bitch arrest the mother fucker. What? It’s confusing when you don’t use medical terminology. I am going to let you know right now this is how Web MD describes kidney stone pain:

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“Waves of sharp pain…” Really, Web MD? I like waves. You know, those sparkling sun-kissed ocean waves. They’re relaxing and beautiful. How dare you describe kidney stone pain as peaceful like the ocean. Who are you, Web MD? Do you think it’s funny to lie to millions of people. Oh, it’s not lying when you water-down or sugar coat the truth? Don’t send me a bill for this visit because my insurance will not pay for your lies.

Don’t you know that you’re never supposed to consult the internet to learn about a medical diagnosis. Come on.

My description is so much more realistic. If you or someone you know ever “passes” a kidney stone, I’m so freakin sorry. Having a baby is way more fun. And so is having surgery.  Just tell yourself or your friend in the most sincere and genuine way, maybe with a tear drop in your eye,”Congratulations. I heard you had a mother fucker. Holy shit. I am so sorry. I’m glad you’re still with us.” Now make sure you get that life insurance check mailed, ok? To my knowledge, Hallmark hasn’t come out with this sort of medically inappropriate line of cards. Yet. We can all hope for the future of expensive thoughtful cards, right?