Early this coming Wednesday morning I was supposed to be on my way to the hospital for my fourth round of surgery to address this whole Dercum’s Disease mess.As usual, it’s not as if I’ve been particularly over-joyed at the prospect of impending surgery, but this time around I wasn’t exactly nervous. Rather than the typical jitters, I had a general feeling of malaise mixed with absolute exhaution. I’m just so tired of being sick, I’m tired of hurting, I’m tired of putting on that brave face. i got to feel normal for a few days, or rather, as close to normal as I can feel with my system teeming with narcotics. I was just getting under control, and then the calendar said it was time to start the agony all over again; yet another round in a seemingly endless cycle.
Today I got a phone call. My surgeon had some sort of emergency and my surgery date has been rescheduled. I don’t know when it will be yet. This past weekend has been really hard. I didn’t want the operation, I didn’t want to go through it again. I was just so tired.
But on the other hand… All that worry is not for nothing. All that agony, all those tears; so anticlimactic. And is this even what I wanted? As much as I hated the thought of it, did I really want to delay it? No. I had plans. I was hoping to be recovered enough to make it to a rather special event at my boyfriend’s parents’ house at the end of the month. I was hoping to get the fourth operation over and done with so that hopefully the entire series will be complete by November, so I could run away to play with my friend Alastair in Scotland. As tired as I am, as much as I was dreading it, as much as I can’t bear the idea of being in the hospital again, I was going to do what I always have to do – I was going to suck it up and just do it anyway. I needed to, but now I can’t, and it throws so much into question. And worse still, I’ll have to go through another weekend like this all over again soon enough.
Many years ago, when I attempted to read Charles Dickens’ ‘Nicolas Nickelby’ for the first time, I read a line that spoke to me so strongly I instantly broke down in tears, threw down the book, and to this day have yet to finish reading that book. “Strength is so exhausting.” I’m sure I’m paraphrasing, butchering Mr. Dickens’ language terribly, but that was the gist of it. And it’s true. I’m really tired. And yet it’s 5:30 in the morning and I have yet to find sleep. My emotions have worn thin and fragile, which I hate. I never used to cry much. Now it seems a daily occurence, even on the best of days. I’m still trying to keep a stiff upper lip, I’m still trying to be strong, but it truly is exhausting.
I understand the need for valleys in order to have peaks. I’m well aware of the cliched notions of trying times to increase strength and wisdom. I appreciate the fact that when all is said and done, I’ll be a better person in the end. I just wish for one small moment it would stop so I could catch my breath. One moment where nothing hurt, where I didn’t have to swallow a pill, where I could have the full capacity of my mind free from opiods; one chance to be me again so that I can simply regain my footing.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; I know I’m a lucky girl. I have my boyfriend, my friends, my pink sparkly… now if only i could have an emotional nap. Because pain sure is efficient at wiping those happy memories from my recollection, replacing them with sadness and tears.
It’s been a rough day. Let’s hope tomorrow is better.