A Little Bit Back In Time

This is a post written on December 4, 2010.  In it I discuss both migraines and fibromyalgia, chronic issues that have been with me for longer than I can remember.  Before that post, I thought that I could have this blog and for the most part ignore those issues. I felt that they were only tangential to my journey. I was wrong. I realized that whether I liked it or not, both play a significant role in making me who I am and acting like an ostrich does not change it. If one is to know me, one has to know the impact that fibromyalgia and migraines have on me, as well as my relationship to them. I hope that this post will be informative.


It’s time that I come clean and stop tiptoeing around the subject. I mean, if I had an employer, I couldn’t keep silent about my absences. So, I feel that it is only fair that I do the same on my blog. I have to fess up and talk directly about a subject that is always on my mind but I pretend to ignore. It’s the reason that it has taken me days to write this post. It’s the reason that I can’t write here as often as I’d like–can’t enjoy many of the things that I love.


I am referring to fibromyalgia. I’ve referred to it in a number of posts but only as some phantom visitor who stays for a while and leaves to return again at some later date. Unfortunately for me, that is not how it works. Over the last six years, fibromyalgia is the visitor who I can’t kick out or order to leave. This is the visitor who quickly over stays his welcome, and creates havoc and still refuses to leave, no matter what I do.  He is a visitor that should he come knocking on your door, you should bar your windows and doors, and under no circumstance allow him entry, because once he is in, only the fates know when he will leave.


What is fibromyalgia? This is where things get complicated. First of all, fibromyalgia is not a disease, it is a syndrome. Fibromyalgia (pronounced fy-bro-my-AL-ja) is a common and complex chronic pain disorder that affects people physically, mentally and socially. Fibromyalgia is a syndrome rather than a disease. Unlike a disease, which is a medical condition with a specific cause or causes and recognizable signs and symptoms, a syndrome is a collection of signs, symptoms, and medical problems that tend to occur together but are not related to a specific, identifiable cause. http://goo.gl/IcY9z 


Fibromyalgia, which has also been referred to as fibromyalgia syndrome, fibromyositis and fibrositis, is characterized by chronic widespread pain, multiple tender points, abnormal pain processing, sleep disturbances, fatigue and often psychological distress. For those with severe symptoms, fibromyalgia can be extremely debilitating and interfere with basic daily activities.http://goo.gl/IcY9z   The syndrome differs from one person to another, but for me, the last phrase of the definition is particularly accurate. Because of the pain from fibromyalgia, I reluctantly resigned my position as an active litigation attorney and remain on “inactive” status with the state bar.  


The debilitating fatigue, cognitive dysfunction, insomnia, as well as sleep apnea, and psychological distress, are child’s play, compared to the pain.  For the past week and a half, I have been wracked with pain that changes location like a feather in the wind.  Muscles seize, throb,  sear, and radiate pain from head to toe, until they exhaust themselves; not even my implanted pain pump can stop the steady assault as it moves across my body. During these times, I wish that I could say that I am stoic throughout, but I’d be lying.  I take the useless pain medications, apply ice (I have about 10 ice packs), thrash, toss, turn and fervently pray to God, mostly to put me out of my misery. (This last one, I quickly take back lest God answer that prayer.)  Since I was raised Catholic, I also start calling on the guardian angels, dead relatives (I get desperate.) and saints. In case you didn’t know, there is a saint for whatever ails you. For example, St. Dennis for headaches, St. Germaine Cousins for the disabled and my personal favorite St. Michael, whom I call upon for everything. 


Over the years, I’ve tried massage, acupuncture, acupressure, Chinese medicine, herbal remedies, energy medicine, heat therapy, cold therapy, chiropractics, homeopathic medicine, flower essences, essential oils, yoga, steroid injections, pain pump implant, meditation, prescription medication, cranio-sacral therapy, physical therapy, vitamin supplements , trigger point therapy, and over-the-counter medication– anything that sounds remotely promising, I’ll try it. As I’ve discovered, the passage of time is the only sure and potent remedy.  Afterwards, I am grateful for my mind’s defense mechanism that allows me to forget the ferocity of these episodes. Mercifully, I remember pain–just not the depth and breadth of the pain.  


When I first began this blog, I wanted to gloss over this topic because I do not want pity or to be thought of solely as “that woman with fibromyalgia.”  I am so much more. As I stated then:

“Over the years, I’ve held many roles, namely, mother, wife, daughter, sister, g’mom, attorney, friend and countless others. In addition to the typical roles, I have chronic pain due to both fibromyalgia, http://j.mp/bsS10S, and migraines. This blog is not about my health issues per se, but given their huge impact on my life, denying them is akin to denying my skin or eye color. Besides, there is no doubt that they, like every other challenge that I have met and conquered in life, have no small part in forming the woman that I am today.” I just want others to know that fibromyalgia is a disorder that I have, it is not what or who I am.



Blessings and peace, lydia




Home

House in Sasino.Image via Wikipedia
Such a simple word with such big implications.  When we say, “I am going home,” we should mean, I am going to my sanctuary, my place away from the world and all its’ craziness and demands, to the place where I can “let my hair hang down,” so to speak.  Home should be a refuge from the world outside, where you feel safe.  
For the past two weeks, I was in L.A. with my daughter and her family.  On May 10th, three days after my arrival, I was blessed to witness the birth of my newest g’child, a boy.  He is healthy and beautiful–so is his mother.  Anyway, I was there to help my daughter through her early days as a Mother.  Let me say that I relished that opportunity.  Yet, I learned one thing. When you are in someone else’s home and they tell you “make your self at home,” it is virtually impossible to do so–at least for me.  I want to make it clear that my hosts were gracious and opened up their home to me.  They wanted me to be as comfortable as possible.  My daughter and I are as close as any mother and daughter could be, but in the back of my mind, I always remembered that I was in her house, surrounded by her things. 
One night, letting warm water seep into my painful, aching muscles and bubbles take me way, I forgot where I was and languished in the bath as I would do at home.  I was soon reminded that I was not home. After attempting to wait me out, my poor son-in-law had to knock on the door to inquire when I’d be out.  I was chagrined at having made him wait.  On two separate occasions, I managed to destroy two of their plates–one a wall hanging and the other, a salad plate, part of their everyday dinner ware. The wall hanging was broken when I somehow managed to bump into it.  Since I can be rather clumsy, it is no surprise, but still, it was not mine to break.  Now the destruction of the salad plate was more complicated. However, cutting to the chase: Not knowing how to use the timer function of their microwave, and forgetting that I’d left a salad plate there, I set the microwave to cook for 15 minutes.  Well, let me tell you, a microwave can cook, no char, a plate in under 15 minutes.  I was busy holding my g’son as B. walked into the kitchen. It was beginning to fill with the scent of burnt plate.  She shouted, “Mom, what are you doing?” I said, “Using the timer.” She responded, “You left the plate in the microwave.” She opened the microwave and took out a charred cracked plate, barely recognizable as the blue plate that went in.  I took one look at it and at first, said–nothing.  What could I say?  Then I said “I am sorry” more than once and that I would replace the plate.  Then, the guilt set in.  Being raised Catholic, guilt is my middle name.
These are but a few of many incidents that occurred during my two weeks in L.A.  At home, I can take a bath as long as I wish, and I can break every plate in the house if I chose to without feeling any guilt, because they are mine. (Of course, I will have to answer some pointed questions from my husband about the whereabouts of our plates, but that is beside the point.) Being home provides a comfort and latitude that being in another’s home can’t provide. It is difficult to “let your hair head down” while you are ever mindful that you are not at home and that you can’t just let it all hang out if you wish. 
Nevertheless, this post in no way suggests that I wish to remain in the comfort of my own little home.  No way!  I am ready to explore–fibromyalgia be damned.  By my experience, I simply recognized how my daughter, who visits us about twice a year, might feel when she’s here. It makes me more aware and intent on making their stay as comfortable as possible. I plan to visit as often as possible to spend time with my daughter, son-in-law, and new g’son. My long ago experience with L.A. was not a good one, but the little that I saw during my recent visit made me want to see more.  Since it does not look like they are coming home anytime soon, I’ll have ample opportunity to explore.

There was one final realization. It is that my daughter is happy and for the time being has found her place in the world.  She is now a mother, and a great one at that. My g’son is more blessed than he can ever know to have B. and K. as his parents.   They have made a home in L.A. and although I would love for them to come home, that is not my choice to make.  For now, their “sanctuary” and “refuge” is in L.A. with their son. I have to respect that.

Oh yeah, as I venture away from home, I realize the old adage to be true, “absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

Blessings and love, Lydia

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Mea Culpa

Baby toesImage by sabianmaggy via Flickr
I know that I have been shirking my blog responsibilities. I am sorry about that, but I hope that once I’ve explained that you’ll agree that it is for a good reason.  I am typing this post, not from my usual home in the big state of Texas, but in Los Angeles.  My middle child, B. and her husband, K. live in sunny California.  Aside from the fact that I welcome any opportunity to see them, my sole reason for this journey was to see a person that I had yet to meet.  You see, B. was pregnant, and due anytime. As it happened,  I arrived 3 days before my new g’child, a boy, entered this world. I was there to support my daughter as she soldiered through an arduous labor, and to witness the moment when mother and child became two not one.  I am still processing the event, but I do know that a miracle happened that day–the sweet miracle of life.  I feel blessed to have been a part of it. 
Anyway,  I want you to know that my blog is still a priority. Nevertheless,  it goes without saying that some things trump it,  and this is one of them. My priority right now is to help my amazing daughter in her early days of motherhood and if at all possible, to form a g’mom bond with my beautiful g’son.  I  will return to posting when I return home. I hope that you will understand and have patience with me.
Blessings and love, Lydia 
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