Memoir...

I have a few friends who are dealing with some stuff right now, and it got me thinking about the stuff that happened to me in my life.  We all have stuff.  Some stuff is bigger than others.  What I think differentiates big stuff from little stuff is this:  how people deal with it.

For some people, it getting diagnosed with an incurable illness is probably the worst thing that could ever happen to them, but I can honestly say… that was not the case with me.

Several years ago, when I started my MFA (Master’s of Fine Arts) in Creative Writing, I started writing extensively about the first six weeks of my MS diagnosis.  It was part therapy and part response to people asking about it nonstop…  it ended being a full-length memoir.  I titled it “Uncomfortably Numb:  My First Six Weeks with Multiple Sclerosis.”  I thought it was pretty good.  I tried to get it published. 

Needless to say, it didn’t.

But I’ve been blogging quite a bit lately, and I have readers (thank you!) and so I figured maybe there was some interested in reading said memoir.

If there is, I’ll post chapters (probably chopped up). 

Maybe it will help someone.  Maybe you are just nosey.  Maybe you are genuinely curious about what I went through those first yucky weeks. 

Maybe you are clueless and didn’t even know I had MS (thanks, oh observant one!)

I haven’t looked at it for a while and I think SOMEONE should be reading it.

Yeah, call me the MS Narcissist Queen!

Taking action...

Life isn’t easy.  In fact, I would argue that life is often pretty damn hard.  I don’t know a single soul who would say, “Oh my goodness, my life is COMPLETELY without stress.  I have NOTHING to worry about.  Every second of my life has been bliss, bliss, bliss!”

Ok, maybe my cats would say that.  Their lives do seem pretty cherry, but I’m talking about humans here.

I’m not saying I never complain.  Of course I do.  I complain a lot.  It feels good to bitch and moan.  Some things I’ve complained about in the past week:

 * The cold

* The cold I have

 * The excessive amount of papers I have to grade

 *  The lack of heat in my classroom

 * Darryl watching football and cheering and/or complaining audibly

* The fact that my washing machine ate some of my new socks

* That my pipes froze on the second floor and I had to take a Whore’s Bath ™ before school on Friday.

And of course, those are just the ones I remember.  I’m sure there are more.

Bad things have gone down in my life, but guess what?  Bad things go down in everyone’s life.  There are different degrees to the badness.  No, I wasn’t beaten by my parents or molested or homeless… but enough yucky things happened to me that you would never (not by a mile) say I lived a charmed life. 

When I got diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, I never complained.  What was the purpose?  I could have had a pity-party and thought “whoa is me,” but what would have accomplished?

Bad things happen, but it’s all about how you view them.  If you see the crappy things in life as inconveniences instead of as deal breakers, life will be easier.

When I got my MS diagnosis, I realized my life would indeed be inconvenienced, but I never thought my life would be ruined by my MS diagnosis.  When I was first told it was MS and the neurosurgeon said it was wonderful news, that I wasn’t going to die from this, that I didn’t have to make arrangements for someone to take care of Tiernen, that I was going to be okay, I believed him.  Life would go on.  It WAS going on.  And according to Dr. Shatla, I could live just like this for the next 60 years.

Sometimes we get addicted to sympathy and get caught up in our own crap.  We get addicted to the victim mentality. I actually had my electrician come to my house and offer to build one of those electronic chair lifts.  It freaked the crap out of me because I could walk – I could always walk, that I had never lost the ability to walk, even when I was in full-blown MS exacerbation mode – didn’t seem to make that much of a difference to the electrician.  Someone somewhere had told this guy that MS = wheelchair bound.  Screw that.  That’s victim mentality.

There was a time in my life when I was so depressed, I thought I would go out of my mind.  I went to intense therapy that was unlike therapy (I’ve gone on and off since high school… there’s no shame in that… we all need a safe place to download in a judgment-free arena) I’d ever gone to. 

This therapist gave me one session to fill him in on my backstory.  After that, it was all work.  Think intensive, intensive action-oriented therapy.  He would give me homework of specific goals I had to accomplish each week and I would report back about them.  I used to cry so hard during those sessions that I was too exhausted to cook afterwards, so Tuesdays became pizza night.  Friends (not that I had any other than Carina) knew not to call on Tuesdays because I was a wreck.   

He refused to allow me to spend the session recounting the crap that happened to me in the past.  “What’s the point,” he’d say. “because we can’t fix it, even if we talked about it for the next ten years.”  That really resonated with me.

I went October to March, faithfully, and as hard as they were, they helped.  Think of it as the worst physical therapy ever, except it was for my mind.  But I got better.  And what was the “cure”?

Action.

Action is the cure for depression. Action is the cure for a shitty marriage.  Action is the cure for a shitty work situation.  Action is the cure for a bad friendship.  Action is the cure for a bad body image.  Action is the cure for unhealthy eating habits.  Action is the cure for an uncomfortable living situation.  Action is the cure for stagnancy. 

See, human like homeostasis.  We like things to stay the same, and as sad as this is, we even get used to pain.  Like an oyster, we build protective coatings around our irritants and say, “look, a pearl!” even when the “pearl” is something unhealthy.  We like things to stay the same because we are comfortable with the discomfort…  The discomfort becomes like a familiar friend, as sad as that is.

At the same time, we like to complain about the discomfort, so it’s an unhealthy cycle.  I am in pain – but I don’t want to change because change is scary – the pain I know is better than the change I don’t know – but I’m in pain…  

The only way to break the cycle is to take some sort of action. 

I didn’t say it was easy.  I didn’t say it feels good.  But it is the only way to break the cycle and move forward. 

Here is an example of some action, though painful, I had to take:

I am not close to my mother and haven’t been for more than 20 years.  I have tried countless times over the past nearly 19 years since Tiernen was born, but I usually end up pretty hurt and upset.  My mother didn’t call me for three months after my breast cancer scare last year.  Three months.  At one point she didn’t call me for eight YEARS.  This summer was the final straw when she disappointed Tiernen and ruined her vacation.  Hurting me is one thing, but hurting my kid?  Nope… 

I took action and cut out this toxic woman from my life once and for all.  I wish I could say I was sad, but I’m not.  Some actions hurt, but some actions, well they hurt less than the hurt they inflicted.  I thought I would be devastated, but I had been devastated for so very long, it was worth it. 

Now for the harsh reality:  if you aren’t willing to make changes and take action (not just TALK about them, but actually make them), then you have pretty much lost your RIGHT to complain.

And we all know how much fun it is to complain…  

Shape Shifter

I’ve been drainless (drain free? Sans drain?) for a whole week now.  I am pleased to say that I have no more crippling cramps which is absolutely a plus.  I’m not on any pain meds, not even Tylenol.  Yippee! 

Of course, I’m still quite puffy and swollen.  Additionally, Keith the Fabulous Nurse told me that scar tissue doesn’t begin to break down until after three months.   So really what this means is what I look like now isn’t what my bod will look like in three months.  I’m hoping that by my birthday in April, my torso will be rocking.  After three months, I’ll be able to start exercising again, so I maybe I can firm up some other giggly bits.  I guess it’s something to look forward to.

Compression socks = not attractive

In the meantime, I’m still sporting my way sexy compression socks.  The only time I take them off is when I shower (which I can do now, yay!) or when I wash them.  You can imagine how odd it looks to have tan compression socks in a washing machine full of black clothing.   

I am also wearing my binder 24 hours a day (again, unless I’m showering or it’s being washed).  I’m not talking “put your notes in a binder” here, folks.  I’m talking about a

Not this kind of binder...

body binder (think mummy wrapping with Velcro).  Because I didn’t have a traditional tummy tuck (most people just get cut from hip to hip; I got cut hip to hip AND from breast bone to pubic bone… we’re talking some 36+ inches of incisions), the traditional binder isn’t long enough to bind all of me.  So I have to wear TWO binders, one on the lower part of my belly and one on my upper.  Yes, imagine mummy because that’s what I look like.  

Very sexy body binder (not)

Keith the Wonder Nurse felt my pain – ok, not literally, but he was sensitive to my plight – and he suggested I go to Macy’s or something and get a body shaper.  He said it would sufficiently put pressure on my incisions and be thinner underneath my clothes.

Darryl, the best husband ever, took me to Victoria’s Secret. I was in a ridiculous amount of pain and was walking like a mummy, but if any of you are familiar with Vicky’s you know that the second you walk in, about fifteen workers come and ask if they can help.  Usually and I blow them off, but this time I wanted in and out.  I explained that I had surgery, needed a tight-tight body shaper to put pressure on my 36-inch incisions, and yeah, if it could come in black, that would be a huge bonus. 

This is not me.

Almost instantly, Vicky’s attendant found me this body shaper that had built-in panties.  I didn’t want built-in panties, especially since I was planning on wearing the shaper every single day and ew, but she assured me that I could wear undies underneath it with no problem.  I paid the $38 and was out the door.  No, I did not try it on.  I was in pain, and I didn’t think you really tried those things on. 

To be honest, one of the reasons I wanted the binder to be as lump-free as possible was because I knew I was going to visit my Gram for the family’s annual post-Christmas party.  Because Gram forbid me from having a tummy tuck, I needed to be able to hide it.  I was lucky enough to get the drain out the day before (bonus) but mummy binders would be hard to cover.  Even though it was under my clothes, it made me lumpy.  I wanted to show off my hard work.

When I got home and took the shaper out of the package, it was

This was the approximate size of the body shaper.

approximately the size of a Cabbage Patch outfit.  I took off my mummy binders and squeezed my bod into this tiny spandex bod squisher.  I looked like a sausage.  But you know what?  The pressure on my incisions felt really, really good.  I was ready to face my Gram.

The next day, we woke up and Darryl brought the dogs to the kennel. Tiernen and I loaded up the car with Gram’s gifts and dressed in our new Christmas clothes (guess what color I wore?)  I swallowed three Tylenol and stashed the rest of the bottle in my coat pocket. I knew I would need them. 

The shaper did its job:  it put the pressure on my incisions (not to mention sucking in any giggling bits).  I looked good! 

Post-Christmas was a blast!  Gram loved her presents.  The food was awesome.  We laughed.  And the best was… my bestie Michelle came to dinner.

This year, we decided to recreate pictures from high school.  They were taken in 1988 and 1990 and then on December 27, 2014.  (Now’s a good time to tell me that I haven’t changed at all!)

Michelley and me (1988) outside of Bayonne High

Gram didn’t know about my surgery, which was a bonus.  She said I was “too skinny” and that I “lost enough weight” and “needed to stop.”  She said she “likes me better fat.”  We’re Italian.  This is my family. 

Overall, it was a lovely time.

Michelle and me at the prom (1990)

But when I got home, I realized that the elastic around my legs on the 

shaper had ripped open my 

incisions.  No bueno.  Ouch, ouch, ouch.  Darryl had to put all sorts of bandages and triple antibiotic ointment on me to try to close up the wounds.  Ew.

Also not me

I went BACK to Victoria’s Secret and found a second kind of shaper ($44 this time), this one for women who have both a chubby belly and flabby thighs (I have skinny legs, by the way).  This one is a shaper plus biker shorts.  Yeah, not sexy, at all, but it puts the pressure on my incisions without ripping open my hip ones.  Bonus.  I guess.

Michelle and me, senior pic (1989)

Don’t forget to tell me how I haven’t changed.

Puffy

No one likes the end of winter break or any break for that matter, especially teachers.  For me this year, it’s going to be difficult to go back to work.

It isn’t that I don’t love my job.  I do.  I love my students.  I love being a teacher.  I know that sounds really corny, but I really do.  My students make me laugh every day, and I don’t mean laugh a little bit either.  I even have a bulletin board of quotes that my students say that make me laugh.  Some of my favorites from this year:

“Stop judging me.  This isn’t judging class.”

“Do you go to the bathroom EVERY day, Mrs. Nix?”

“You ARE disappointed in me!”

I guess you have to be there.  (But believe me, they are funny, funny kids.)

Besides hitting me with zippy one-liners, they are genuinely smart, interesting, dedicated teenagers.  I know that there are many negative stereotypes about teenagers out there (especially Proctor students), but none of them apply to mine.  Many teachers have said, “it’s just because you have AP,” but not all of my students are AP.  Even my non-AP students are awesome.  I just hope that all of my students realize that I really enjoy our time together.  I’ve missed my students and I hope they’ve missed me.

Why then am I so bummed out about going back to school on Monday? Well, because I’ve been out of school since December 12.  That was a long time ago… 23 days ago to be exact.  During that time, I haven’t thought about school.  I haven’t graded a paper.  I haven’t written a lesson plan. 

And it felt good.

That isn’t to say that students haven’t emailed me.  They have.  I haven’t responded.  They have texted me too and I’ve responded to those (but not to the ones on Christmas because that was just over the line!)  I just focused my time on preparing for my surgery and then on recovering.  I think I’m still recovering.

That being said, I am no longer in pain.  At my last follow up appointment with Dr. Sleeper, I only saw Anita.  She took the black sticky tape marks off my body and told me there was still fluid in my body (not enough to put the drain back in, thank goodness, though I did have a horrific dream that I had to have it reinserted!!!) but it would be okay.  I don’t go back until January 14, which seems realllllly far away (especially since I was going every few days).  I haven’t been on any pain reliever (including Tylenol) since Monday, so I guess that’s a good sign. My wounds are healing.  I’m getting better.

But I’m not ready to go back to school.  I know there is a tremendous amount of work waiting for me, a tremendous amount of grading.  Ten days after I’m back to school, my proposal class starts (my last class before dissertation… my proposal is basically the first three chapters of my dissertation! Scary!) 

I’m also a little worried about being awake for an entire workday.  I have been resting.  I have been healing.  I am worried about standing all day.  I’m worried about the physical pain.  I’m worried that people are going to look at me and saying “wow, you are still really fat.”  (I will still be swollen for three months per Dr. Sleeper and my buddy Keith.  My body won’t look the way it is supposed to look for some time… so I guess by my birthday in April.) 

Until then, call me Puff Daddy.   Or at least PuffY.