Sunday, 15 March 2015

Chronic Pain, Life, Dying

I saw the article from the neurosurgeon who wrote upon reflecting what it is like to know you have a limited lifespan. He started out a fine young man, went to University, became a doctor, specialized in neurosurgery, saved countless lives and then was diagnosed with cancer and told he had six months to live.

It was a beautiful piece, knowledgeable and intelligent upon which he reflects upon his life and what he has learned. He has a baby daughter and he wonders if she will remember him.

I read that piece with intensity because I wonder how much time I have left. I do not have cancer that a doctor can say 'You have six months, a year, etc.' I have a time bomb in my head that can go at any time. I can drop dead tomorrow or in 45 years. It's a crapshoot. I truly do not know which is worse: Knowing you have six months and needing to fill in the time or take it slow, or knowing today could be your last day.

I grieve the person I lost. I grieve what I have been robbed of and I mourn what is ahead of me. Each day is special, blah, blah, blah. Life is a gift. Be happy you survived this long. Be positive. I can do that up to a point and then I drown in my own pre-ordained death sentence and fall apart, sobbing to the ground and wonder why this is the way it has to be. My husband picks me up, and tells me he loves me, and I sob until I am hoarse and wish I could disappear.

I have PTSD, actually Compound Complex PTSD between my childhood and this thing growing in my head, that sticks by me as my shadow and follows me around, constantly telling me, don't laugh too hard: Pink Mist. Don't cough. Do not stress. And all that does is increase the constant terror that has become my life.

I have become a hermit, locked inside my own diseased mind and all I can do is read and watch horror movies, the bloodier the better, so I can forget, for one hour, one day, that I am dead.

The fear is overwhelming. The anxiety is like having a too big a piece of food lodged in your throat that you cannot get rid of. And what really, truly sucks, is that some people that know me, think I should carry on and continue being the rock and the hand that rocks the cradle, and forget about it, but concentrate on their perception of life.

That has made me re-evaluate everything. I do have severe clinical depression thanks to my step-father, along with many other invisible scars. And I bet if you sprayed Luminol on my soul, you would see each and every one of them: The childhood torture and rape of my spirit, the mental and physical illness it created, the stress, the brain aneurysm, the pain of having a family, the pain of needing a family with the realization I will never have one that I crave.

No, today is not a good day. Tomorrow, who knows.

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