We were expecting the insurance company to deny coverage for my surgery. Insurance is a constant go around, and I almost never have a doctor's visit without angry phone calls, let alone specialist visits. So I didn't even for a minute dare to think that they might even consider approving the surgery.
But I didn't realise how devastated that denial would make me feel. It makes me feel so small, so worthless, so unimportant. Is my life not worth their time or money? Is my quality of life so far gone that I can't get it back? I've already done so much work in preparing to fight a denial, but it doesn't seem to matter at all.
Does any of it matter anymore?
I don't have anything to be thankful for this year. I can't even be thankful for my health, the smallest, most seemingly unimportant blessing.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
It's getting harder and harder by the day. Sometimes I'm not even sure I want to get better. I don't remember what 'better' is, for that matter. It feels like another life that I lost somewhere a long time ago. Most of the time, I simply try to survive - I can't do anything else.
The nausea and dizziness are with me all the time now. There's a bouncy ball wrecking havoc on my stomach, and I can barely bring myself to eat anything except toast, and even that is a challenge most days. Any time I'm upright, even propped up in bed, my head turns into one of those coin whirlpools that used to be in shopping malls, my brain a little tugboat spinning round and round on its way downward into darkness. Then there's the blacking out. It's only for a second at a time, but that's far long enough to lose one's footing and crash into something or fall down. I used to feel okay driving, but I had one of those blackouts while driving downhill on a windy two-lane road, so that was the end of that real quick.
I wish someone had told me about the long-term side effects of having these nerve block injections and trigger point injections. I may well have acted more cautiously and not had the shots quite so often. Huge, dark purple stretch marks now cover my upper arms and upper legs indiscriminately, and they're beginning to creep down towards my elbows and knees and across my chest. They've all popped into existence overnight - I didn't notice any strange marks on my skin one night, the next night there were white stretch marks, and by the next night they were purple and tender and indented.
I keep trying to tell myself that by the end of this, I'll have some wickedly cool battle scars. But I can't bring myself to believe it. I can't even believe I'll get better.
The nausea and dizziness are with me all the time now. There's a bouncy ball wrecking havoc on my stomach, and I can barely bring myself to eat anything except toast, and even that is a challenge most days. Any time I'm upright, even propped up in bed, my head turns into one of those coin whirlpools that used to be in shopping malls, my brain a little tugboat spinning round and round on its way downward into darkness. Then there's the blacking out. It's only for a second at a time, but that's far long enough to lose one's footing and crash into something or fall down. I used to feel okay driving, but I had one of those blackouts while driving downhill on a windy two-lane road, so that was the end of that real quick.
I wish someone had told me about the long-term side effects of having these nerve block injections and trigger point injections. I may well have acted more cautiously and not had the shots quite so often. Huge, dark purple stretch marks now cover my upper arms and upper legs indiscriminately, and they're beginning to creep down towards my elbows and knees and across my chest. They've all popped into existence overnight - I didn't notice any strange marks on my skin one night, the next night there were white stretch marks, and by the next night they were purple and tender and indented.
I keep trying to tell myself that by the end of this, I'll have some wickedly cool battle scars. But I can't bring myself to believe it. I can't even believe I'll get better.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Haven't written in a while because haven't had anything to say. It's simply the same old shit, the same waiting game, the same insurance company bull. My head hurts so much that I'm losing the ability to form sentences aloud, because finding the right word is like sludging through a bowl of oatmeal looking for one single oat, if the bowl was the size of a swimming pool. I'm fuzzy and foggy all the time now and I never seem to break through it anymore. Thinking of anything more complicated that "I should get up and get some water" or "I haven't eaten yet today" isn't worth it.
The physical head pain is so terribly unpredictable. Yesterday morning, my head felt like a small boat on the edge of an infinite whirpool, swirling around and around uncontrollably while being dragged down. Last night, it felt more like Andre the Giant had one of his immense hands at the back of my head, thumb behind one ear and forefinger behind the other, and was squeezing with the intent to pop my head open. Today, it's more like explosions or fireworks all along the afflicted nerves.
Mental illness medications work wonders when you're using the correct ones. But they can only help so much. And I'm on the way down because I can't see an end.
The physical head pain is so terribly unpredictable. Yesterday morning, my head felt like a small boat on the edge of an infinite whirpool, swirling around and around uncontrollably while being dragged down. Last night, it felt more like Andre the Giant had one of his immense hands at the back of my head, thumb behind one ear and forefinger behind the other, and was squeezing with the intent to pop my head open. Today, it's more like explosions or fireworks all along the afflicted nerves.
Mental illness medications work wonders when you're using the correct ones. But they can only help so much. And I'm on the way down because I can't see an end.
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