Minor Hunter S. Thompson Moment

With gentle yet precise shove, I am pushed out of a door into the proverbial never-ending hallway filled with more doors than Monsters Inc. I see my shadow tall in front of me. I don’t recognize the shape. Who is that creature relegated to a cliched semi-hallucinatory state after browning out for over a year to the borderline intolerable?

The ceiling immediately opens up and it starts raining bowling balls. I am mesmerized by the vibrant rainbow of colors tumbling from the sky. I cannot feel the devastating impact created as they pummel my body. Blow after blow bounces off my flesh producing a visible mark and audible wince of pain without response from me. I continue to marvel at the large, polished orbs designed to knock down anything in their path. Finally, as I watch its entire descent from the imaginary sky, a psychedelic tye-dye ball painted with a big smiley face hits me smack between the eyes.

The pain is immediate and radiates down through my body to reach my very core. All the while the ball that struck me is laughing wildly through its now demonic smile. I try to run for cover but there is none unless I open one of the endless doors.

I grab the nearest door knob only to be met with purple slime coating the knob and now my hand. It is impossible to turn it. My movements become frantic and breathing is difficult. There is no air in my lungs to produce a scream.

When I look over my shoulder, I see the bowling balls have morphed into the Wicked Witch of the West’s evil, flying monkeys. They are headed straight for me and their creepy Oz theme music blasts my ears.

I pull back and thrust shoulder first into the door and it cracks open. The thought of trying another door without slime all over it never occurs to me.

My successful escape from monkeys borne of bowling balls is met with an involuntary belly flop into a giant pit that resembles the dungeons at ChuckECheese filled with those bacteria-ridden balls. Except this pit isn’t filled with balls, it is filled with millions of over sized pills. There are capsules the size of my foot, round, powdery tablets that could be used for frisbees, and gelcaps that look more like garden globes than medicine.

The more I struggle to find the edge and climb out, the deeper I sink into the morass of pharmaceutical phalluses. A loud, creaking sound emanates from below the infinite quick sand of drugs and the farther I fall, the louder and screeching it gets. I try to turn my head downward to identify what is generating the now piercing vibrations of high pitched metallic squeals.

That’s when I see it.

A massive hypodermic needle with a shiny tip that glints so bright I have to shield my eyes. My attempts to remove myself from this nightmare shift into high gear to avoid being stabbed with a shot bigger than my beat up old station wagon. The more I grab at the capsules and tablets, the closer the needle gets to my ass. I am like the last salmon in the river willing itself against the current, desperately trying to make it across the final rocky rapids to freedom.

Of course, I don’t and am deeply punctured through the junk in my trunk up through my torso until the once shiny tip emerges from inside my skull covered in gray tissue, dripping with blood.

It has not killed me and, as I reach over to take a bite out of one of the football sized gelcaps,  the only thing that comes to what is left of my brain is “Wow. Wonder what would have happened had I tried to fight it out with those damn monkeys?”


p.s. Can it be a Hunter S. Thompson moment if I reference Monsters Inc.?

I am an Open Book

This is not a news flash to me.

Or to you, either, if you regularly read this blog.

It was however, a mild revelation as I nearly told my entire nerve block story to a clerk at my local resale shop.

It’s almost like I’ve lost my filter to a certain degree.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not seeking out people to narrate my life story to. In most cases, I have somehow stopped answering “fine” when things are not “fine.” I can still buck it up and, in appropriate situations, i.e., the office and other pertinent places, pull from my inner abilities to act the “part” and smile as I say, “I’m okay, and you?” All the while, barely under the surface of my skin, I am trembling in pain and fear and anguish praying I make it through the bold-face lie without breaking down into a sobbing pile of human flesh.

I don’t consider that a lie by omission. I consider that common courtesy to not inflict my wounds onto another’s being.

In some cases, I have taken that too far. This is where we return to the nerve block story.

I know I have written about my surgeries before, so I won’t regurgitate them now. I have mentioned that I was left with some chronic pain as a result. Unfortunately, about six months into the pain, I stopped keeping those closest to me abreast of the situation. Truthfully, I stopped listening to my own body and managed to lie to my own darn self.

Suddenly, an additional year had passed without me telling the truth about the level and/or consistency of the pain. It took a random excursion to the bowling alley which adversely impacted whatever previous surgical injury occurred, amping up the pain level to near “ripping-my-skin-off” on a scale of “hangnail” to “fourth-degree-laceration-labor-trauma.”

[May I interject here that for some I thought it would be a good idea to listen to the Rocky soundtrack while writing this. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to locate the tracks as they had been moved off to a DVD to save room on my computer. Honestly, with the exception to the Fanfare that we all know – there’s not much else about the album I like. Think I’ll switch to a tested and true stand by for motivational music – The Bourne Identity Soundtrack by John Powell. Also, a great addition to your iPod for a workout session. I lost fifty pounds to it a few years ago! See? No filter…]

Subsequent to the bowling incident, a cartoonish lightbulb went off in my head.


“I am only 41. My Nana is 96 and going strong. Do I really want to live another 55 years with this level of pain in the area of my body where I spend approximately 75% of my time – seated?”

The answer was a resounding, “hell no.”

I placed a few calls, had some much delayed second consultations by fresh doctors and the result was medication (which, honestly, only makes me not care as much that I am in pain, but does not take the pain away) and a nerve block in the pudendal nerve. (Google it. I dare ya. It’s a fun nerve to have f’d up for the rest of your life, huh?)

I won’t go into the TMI details of the procedure here only because I have rehashed all or parts of it more than even I care to – Best Friends, Sister, Mother, Co-workers, Cousin, Facebook followers, and nearly the innocent by-standing resale clerk.

(SHOUT OUT ALERT – Hubby was there through it all and, I must share – TOTALLY AWESOME for me. Couldn’t have asked for a better Man to help me through this. Thanks, babe!)

Why am I writing all of this?

Oh, yea – I’m an open book.

I am in a blessed place where I can no longer live multiple lives – co-workers see me one efficient, organized way; best friends see underbelly and internal organs; husband sees only the parts of me that I think won’t make him want to leave me; family of origin sees grownup, finally put together adult; and I get left with compartmentalized heart muscle and brain tissue that is getting increasingly difficult to keep track of without slipping and allowing some crossover.

It has taken quite some time to take action on this knowledge, yet I believe I am there.


Let’s just say that my filter used to be constructed with low-grade, gray granite. Now, it resembles tye-dyed mosquito netting.

Quite an improvement, I think.