Last week I had a deep and committed relationship with our couch. I was on it every day, in nearly the fetal position, with my trusty lap top within fingers reach and a Criminal Minds marathon on the t.v. It takes a lot for me to be knocked down for the count. I've dealt with fevers, flu, double pneumonia, and full on arthritic flares on major joints and still gotten the kids to school, made meals, and had all the laundry washed and folded by nighttime. Not this time!
It started on Friday when I scratched what I thought was a rare mosquito bite on my back. Saturday that bite had grown to the size of a half dollar, literally if you took a dollar and cut it in half it was that size. Sunday the swelling had started from under my right breast and had spread to the spine all in the size of one of those dried sausages you see in the pictures of a butcher. I had a spare tire and it hurt. Monday brought me to the doctor's office. After waiting until 4:30 for my 3:30 appointment...it was diagnosed that either I had MRSA, Staph infection, or...he really wasn't sure. But he prescribed an antibiotic and said that if it didn't start draining on its own by Thursday I would have to come back for him to lance it and drain it. That also hurts. I've had it done, it sucks.
Now all of my life whenever I had a doctor appointment the appointment would start the very same way each and every time: what hurts, is it swollen, and how would you rate your pain? How would I rate my pain? As a kid I had a hard time figuring this one out. Rate my pain? Like how? Like I would rate a movie? Two thumbs up? Two thumbs down? What about those weird days where I didn't really hurt but I couldn't move my joints, would that be a one thumb up one thumb down deal? As I got a little older this fancy schmancy new rating system came out that all the docs seemed to go gaga over. It was a scale starting a 0 and ending at the number 10. So 0 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain I'd ever felt I would have to make my little crayola line over the number closely relating to the level of pain I was feeling. Well how did I know what was the worst pain I'd ever felt? I was only 8, I hoped I had a lot more life to live, which meant childbirth and I had heard that was excruciating. Plus I'd never broken a bone or anything so how did I know if maybe one day I would break a bone and THAT would trump the current pain I was experiencing in my right ankle? I struggled with the pain rating, I really did. While most 8 year old girls were anxious over having the right clothes for their Barbie, I worried that I was not giving an accurate pain rating for my doctors. Then they brought out the smiley face rating scale. That thing really ticked me off. There is no smiley face on this earth that can accurately portray what I feel inside. Seriously hated the smiley faces.
I finally found a way around those annoying pain ratings. Instead of making a mark on a line, I started describing my pain to the doctors in the most vivacious words I could come up with. Instead of just, "it hurts" I would have an entire diatribe of how the pain would vibrate under my skin, starting from the marrow of the joint itself. That each wave would bring a cresting of heat and pressure with it, crushing the bone and skin until it felt as if my ankle would become just bits of sand, giving away underneath me. I read a lot as a kid and I had quite the vivid imagination along with quite the substantial vocabulary to choose from. I would describe feeling, if it were a sharp pain, that someone was using an ice pick and hammer to bash away at my finger joints every time I grasped a pencil or crayon. A dull thudding pain was described as the slow beat of an African drum heard off in the distance. Where you are never sure where it came from but it matches your heart beat pound for pound.
Back to my current pain of last week. After some input from a message board I frequent, I diagnosed myself with Cellulitis, inflammation of the skin cells. Resulting in swelling, pain, fever, joint pain, and a gross collection of pus and fluids in the area of a blister. By Tuesday this 'bite' had grown into a spare tire of inflammation, a collection of hardened pus and a blister that would.not.break. The pain was insanity. The slightest shift in air pressure around my skin caused me to curl up and close my eyes praying for stillness to return. When I saw my kids come running at me for a hug or kiss goodnight I would scream out for them to stay back and not touch me in a panic that they would accidentally hit my sore and I would implode into a million pieces. The pain wasn't just in that one spot, I felt it in each and every joint in my body, that thudding aching stiffness. It was if someone had poured molten lava that was just starting to solidify in each joint causing pressure, heat and stiffness. Hot moist packs wouldn't work, a heating pad didn't work, I was beginning to doubt that even the antibiotics were working their magic. Thursday came and I knew I HAD to get my one son to his doctor appointment that morning. It had been cancelled two weeks prior and it was a very important visit. So despite cringing and nearly vomiting while getting dressed myself I got the 3 boys dressed, fed, and in the van heading towards our friend's house. I dropped off the 2 boys and took the 1 to the office. Even the doctor noticed the pale look on my face and the way I was walking. I told him it was mind over matter this morning and lets just focus on what I came for. On our way back to picking up the other 2 I began to think it was Emergency Room time. I was having hot and cold spells, the pain was so intense I was crying, it was time to admit it: I was in over my head. We get home and my husband is home, thankfully early! He took the boys and I figured that first I would lie down on the bed and then once I got my breath back we would head to the ER.....
Five hours later I woke up.
I went into the bathroom and almost wept with joy, the stupid blister was finally draining. Not a whole lot, but enough to make it so I wouldn't need to go to the ER or to the doctor to have it lanced. Oh it hurt like a son of a *itch but it was draining. I was never so happy to see pus. In the days that have followed my spare tire of swelling has gone down to the size of a tube sock. The pain is gone and it still weeps a bit as the rest of excess fluid works its way out. I've had cellulitis before but never ever like this. It was a reminder that as much as I would like to think I'm in control, my body has the last say in the matter.
It also made me realize that while pain is universal, we all feel pain, pain is also highly individualized. What hurts me, may not hurt someone else to the same degree. So when a doctor asks us to rate our pain and I check off a 5 and they can't figure out why I'm even in the ER then if it's not a 10, it's because my tolerance for pain is way higher than someone elses. And somewhere out there is someone who may have been able to take on my cellulitis last week and still been able to get up, get dressed, and lived their life. Instead of me, who became addicted to Mahjong and left a body imprint on our couch.
After a week off I am jumping back into my training. I was very angry when I first realized that training was NOT in the cards for me last week (the tip off was when trying to get dressed made me dry heave). I was pissed off that after only 1 week of in earnest training my body was already crashing on me. Oh I was pissed and I had a lot of not nice things to say to myself. But it's a week later, I feel better so it's game back on. I have to realize that while there will be interruptions in my training that's no reason to stop altogether. I want this challenge, I need to face this challenge. I will and I can.
Oh and next time I got to the doctor and need to rate my pain, I'm bringing this:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/search/label/pain%20faces
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