I got my access to WordPress restored!
Yeah, it’s back. I made a mistake entering my “credentials,” but it was the right mistake. Far effin’ out for once.
This posting is a good place to set and a place-marker. A week from today, March 24, I’m allowing an anesthesiologist/pain management specialist to open my back and plant a spinal cord stimulation device in there. I will become a Bionic Man. I can’t eat or drink (even water) for 24 hours before, and I can’t shower or bathe for a week afterwards. I have to keep the area dry.
What might it buy me?
Mobility. Being able to walk with no pain, or with pain significantly reduced to the point where I can sometimes even smile again. Smile. Believe me, it’s been a long time since my facial muscles could manage that trick. For years there’s not been much to smile about except, perhaps, the misfortunes of others.
Like I’ve said (and said and said and said) I’ve been living with chronic pain since 2011. I’m in Room 101, home of The Worst Thing In The World. In my specific case, the WTITW is not rats–it’s diabetic neuropathy. I’m not too good at walking. But I’m really good at crying and cursing God. Oh yes…and even though my atheist acquaintances pronounce God a crock of shit, I happen to believe with full heart in his malevolence and cruelty.
See, this is what happens to you in a torture chamber–you lose faith in everything but a curse .
I want to be proved wrong. I want to be wrong. I want to believe God is something other than a celestial sadist who spreads the misery around from one person to another in no specific pattern. You don’t have to do anything to merit this kind of punishment: you just have to be alive.
My first expectation when I heard about SCS was that I’d be able to run again. I used to do that most mornings from 2005 until 2011. It wore me out, it pumped me up, it made me feel human. I’ve been told that I can still say goodbye to my running days. I can’t expect to heal sufficiently for me to send in my application for the Boston Marathon, or even a turkey trot.
You know what? Dayenu. Being able to stand and walk at all without pain will be enough for me. Not sitting here crying will be enough for me. Not having to chew Vicodin like it’s Necco wafers will be enough for me. Not having to curse God as my personal Torquemada or Richard Topcliffe will be enough for me. Never heard of Topcliffe? He was really good at what he did. He killed people slowly.
Maybe it took Anthony Babington half an hour to die at St. Giles’ Field. But I’ve been carrying my private Richard Topcliffe around in my body since early 2011. No one who’s been afflicted this way can see the world as anything other than a vision of Hell set on Earth.
Maybe it will somewhat end on March 24. Maybe I can begin to feel human again, as someone with an illness, not a perpetual curse. That hope is what’s been carrying me. That hope is what I’ve lived for. I don’t expect to fully recover on March 24 and become a tango dancer on the 25th. Still, it’s pretty to think so.
I’ll just say it: I don’t just want to walk. Fuck it. I wanna tango!