“Misty Start to the New Year”

The eternal interim and void that is my existence for the next 1000 hours, until my rebirth with a metal spine, is becoming increasingly harder to fathom. The episodes of distress and torment are creeping in and monopolizing more and more of each day. My mechanisms for handling physical incapacitation all assume mental capacity. However, during these appalling incidents, which I can only liken to the attacks by the Vashta Nerada (the Shadows that melt the flesh) in Doctor Who, I temporarily lose two basic human rights, freedom of speech and freedom of thought. How can one maintain these two precious liberties when facing an enemy that can enter their very core?

It is New Year’s Eve, and it is practically worth being this physically immobile to avoid societies’ pressure to have the “best night of the year”. The part of me that is a New Year’s Eve Scrooge has been gradually surfacing after countless experiences of dashed high expectations. Tonight, may in fact, despite the nightmare situation I am currently literally embedded in, develop into my favourite New Year’s to date. I have no grand plans, so how could I possibly be disappointed? Weather wise and emotionally it will be a “misty start to the new year”, but, at least mist can clear. 

Dancing On My Own

Intense pain is isolating and profoundly difficult to bear. Last night was atrociously awful. Daggers, rather than simply stabbing me, in one of the territories that is at war, began a combined operation. My neurones realised that they had the power to affect multiple regions, and delighted in their newfound ability. Despite my parent’s outstanding ventures to relieve my agitation, including continual shifting of positions and attempting to freeze the vexatious nerves, my nervous system advanced in its relentless attack. The war was won, in the early hours of the morning, when we authorized the final ammunition, a large dose of a wonderful substance called morphine, which reinforced my frontline defenses, two practically invisible morphine patches, and finally sleep prevailed.

The Guardian’s song of 2010 is Robyn’s Dancing On My Own. This song, as well as the superficial story regarding a boy not noticing Robyn, refers to that heart wrenching feeling, of despite standing submerged in a large crowd, being completely alone. At present, even when I surround myself with people, I feel removed. Although friends and family are crucial in mentally encouraging me to remain strong and to continue to fight, at the end of the day, they are the home front and I am dancing on my own. Until today I would have described my dance as vicious and aggressive. It was the type of so-called “dance” that caused my brother to be punched in the nose in a mosh pit, a completely out of control, but exceedingly determined dance. Today, my chi is somewhat diminished. My dance is that of the embarrassed twelve year old boy at their first disco, a forced and unwilling shuffle. I am now unsure of how much longer I can continue this solo waltz. 

Blogging about Blogging

Sue Eckstein wrote an article in the Guardian entitled “why people blog about illness”. She, like me, is a woman who had never before publicized personal intricacies, nor even read a blog before jotting her first few words. There is much of her article that concurs with my own sentiments about writing and why it has become such and fundamental and vital element of my present existence. She writes,

“the writing of a daily blog post became as important to my recovery as my antibiotics and physio exercises; it provided a shape to the day and gave me a sense of purpose – a sense that I had some control in an environment where almost everything else was happening to and not with me.”

It is completely dumbfounding and bewildering (excuse the tautology) how composition, which is an area I have always considered to me one of my weakest, has become my most effective lifeline. It is true that writing grants me an element of control and does instill a routine to my days. I do not intend to impugn her opinion, however, for me this is only the tip of the iceberg, only the superficial and easily explicable rationale as to why the formulation of a coherent piece of prose is so therapeutic.

I believe that for a large number of the individuals that blog about illness or blog as a result of illness, the challenge to create a few lines which reveal, whether the readers notice it or not, a thought, fear, anxiety or indifference, forces the writer to address this issue in a deep and meaningful way to them. The blog then provides a forum for the writer to have means to then release it. The captivity of the idea into a piece of writing can liberate the issue from tormenting the mind of the writer. This does not mean that “ill” writer will never again struggle with this thought, fear, anxiety or indifference; yet, it can provide, at least, a temporary release.

Writing is, for me, akin to a whirlwind romance. It is all absorbing, all consuming. It is not crucial that anyone else sees the beauty of my love, or understands his power over me. I cannot help becoming completely distracted from my pain when dominated by him. However, it is always wonderful when someone else does appreciate his style or also finds him appealing.

“This too shall pass”

A thoughtful and sensitive friend sent me an email including the proverb גם זה יעבו “this too shall pass” and the Jewish folklore from which it originates. King Solomon requested that the most renowned jeweller in the land fashion a ring with the power to “make me happy when I am sad, but keep me humble when I am happy”. After days of careful contemplation, the jeweller returned to the king with a gold ring inscribed גם זה יעבור .

A week ago, the sentiment of “this too shall pass” I deeply knew to be true but I had no concept of how it would come to transpire, nor any timeframe to work within. The days of acute pain, immobility and sickness, despite their elements of wonder, when friends or family distracted me, seemed endless. They were becoming harder and harder to manage mentally, as the weeks of no physical improvement continued to increase.

Now the aphorism “this too shall pass” is much more tangible. In my mind I can map how the events of next 8 weeks are going to transpire. I have a plan. Once again, I have targets to achieve and deadlines to work to. The 5^th of January is the first date in the diary, which is associated with large expectations. This is the deadline of the first draft. I am having an investigatory test to further confirm the surgeon’s hypothesis and plan of action. The next date, is the one that makes all others fall into insignificance, it is the day of my major surgery. In once sense, it is the end. It will be the end to a tumultuous journey that although in most respects has been truly horrific, has also revealed how incredibly fortunate I am to have so many remarkable and supportive people surrounding me. On the other hand, it will be the beginning. The beginning of a life where my lower back is constructed predominantly of metal and polyether ether… something or other. The beginning of a long and intensive recovery period and also hopefully the beginning of me being able to look beyond this period to new plans and ambitions that are in absolutely no way related to the spine; that is, of course, unless some eminent doctor happens to read my blog and offer me some cutting edge spinal research… in which case I will reconsider. 

How to obtain Serenity in the face of Uncertainty

Serenity is bliss. The absence of stress and anxiety is a beautiful and wholly desirable concept, and I believe that it is one that is achievable. There are magnificent individuals who radiate the impression of complete ease and appear calm at all times. I can definitely envisage how this persona is possible if one disassociates from life’s difficulties, if one “switches off” and chooses not to engage with the more troublesome queries arising from our existence. The stylized mental technique of meditation could provide an escape from the claustrophobia of living within my own head. A self-induced consciousness, if I were able to achieve it, could potentially provide temporary serenity. Unfortunately, I am a demanding young lady and crave more. I desire to be able to confront my obstacles and uncertainties, not avoid them, whilst retaining an aura of serenity. I can imagine John Heywood’s response, “wolde you bothe eate your cake, and have your cake?" Perhaps it is not possible to both delve deeply into your fears whilst maintaining peace of mind.

Jeannette Winterson once spoke of the “strange enclosed feel of your own world”. When the scope of your world has been reduced to your bedroom and you are struggling on in continual pain, the ability to not become self-absorbed and to be reminded of the world beyond your boundaries is that much more challenging. It may, however, be the key to finding my retreat by providing a path to see past my own struggles without having to disregard them. 

Crazy Contemplations

The extent to which I am completely and utterly unique is becoming more and more apparent. The word unique was carefully replaced from the term crazy, as I would rather consider my quirks to contribute to a character regarded as exceptional or individual than deranged or batty. When I speculate about the concerns and apprehensions that I would consider “normal” for someone on the cusp of major surgery and then juxtapose them with my own actual anxieties, I begin to appreciate quite how unparalleled my thought processes are.

One would presume that my mind would be predominantly perturbed by the risks of the surgery and how best to prepare for it both mentally and physically. Unexpectedly, I seem to allocate more brainpower and time contemplating important issues such as how to have a hair cut in my bed, or a facial, or even a manicure. How could I possibly enter an operating theatre with split ends, unpainted nails and worst of all spots! These are, of course, exactly the crucial details that the surgeons, nurses and technicians will be concentrating on during back surgery. My priorities may be somewhat skewed but one cannot help the musings that occupy their cerebral cortex can they?

The Bipolar Part Of Me

The human body never ceases to completely astound and fascinate me. It is utterly bewildering how one can be entirely absorbed with anxiety and distress, and unable to locate any form of escape from an all consuming pit of worry, and then, for comprehensively mysterious reasons, awaken, a day later, with the capacity to contend with exact same challenges that were beforehand seemingly impossible. I struggle with the concern that others, as hard as they may try, cannot identify with what I am going through and do not understand how I feel. I am now beginning to realise how ridiculous it is to even hope or expect others to understand my emotional rollercoaster, when I myself find it flabbergasting and perplexing.

My latest postulation is that, to an extent, every individual is bipolar. Bipolar disorder is a category of mood disorders defined by episodes of abnormally elevated mood (mania) and often associated with depressive episodes. I am by no means insinuating that I experience periods of mania and then periods od manic depression, just simply that mood swings are normal hominid characteristics. My frame of mind has such drastic implications on how manage the pain I am in and how I psychologically cope with my immobility. I would love to strive to discover the tools to remain continuously in my elevated mindset. However, I do now believe that every person is, to an extent, bipolar, and that the exploration to find the tools, formerly described, is a journey analogous to searching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I do not conclude that the passage is pointless, rather that the quest is an important, but endless one.