Round Three: Pain, Pain As Far As I can See

I discovered this week I'm in the two percent.  I don't want to be.  Apparently, two percent of the people with this type of surgery have nerves that refuse to settle down and stop being inflamed.  Why am I not surprised?  Everything about this surgery has been out of control from the very beginning.  Now, I have out of control pain.

I know pain, and I know nerve pain.  We're old friends thanks to a foot surgery that went bonkers about 12 years ago.  Since then, I've been managing pain with every step I take, and if I may pat myself on the back, I've been doing a damn good job.  I'm not addicted to pain killers; I continue to function at a normal activity level.  Most people never know I even hurt which is the way I've wanted it.  And, one of the side effects of the neuropathy which has invaded my feet these past few years, is the pain specific to certain nerves has been deadened.

So, when the nerve pain in my back, down both the front and side of my leg and in my groin went out of control this week, I hurt so badly I couldn't even be mad.  I'm talking labor pain quality of pain, but without respite or even the prize at the end.  I'm talking 8+ on the pain scale.  It was pain at this level which originally sent me to the emergency room and resulted in the back surgery happening on an emergency basis on a Saturday morning.

Fortunately, for the support staff of this 'machine' I've been dropped into, Drake has been interfacing with them since all I want to do is scream and curse when they don't return calls or make idiotic suggestions.  This is a conveyor belt operation.  First, you get scheduled for surgery, then have your pre-surgery appointment after getting blood work, an ekg, and a chest x-ray.  (This is precautionary, so you don't die on the table.)  Then, you have 'day surgery' in the outpatient clinic, and go home armed with post surgical instructions and a low dose pain prescription.  Two weeks later, the physician's assistant takes out the stitches and they send you on to physical therapy.

They don't expect you to have surgery in the hospital on a Saturday.   Not only did I not receive post operative instructions, but when we called for the follow up surgical appointment, this well-oiled machine didn't even know I'd had surgery!  Plus, they managed to screw up the time and place of the post operative appointment.

They don't have a plan when you call three days after surgery with complaints of 7+ nerve pain.  I've had to explain I already take Gabapentin a low dose prescription used as an anti-inflammatory, and I can't take ibuprofen around the clock.  (Those were their first choices for pain management.)  Grudgingly, they prescribed a steroid pack.  I've been given a low dose narcotic. I'm taking Celebrex as an anti-inflammatory.   When the steroid pak was finished, the pain zoomed right back into the stratosphere, and I coped with it for two days waiting for the post surgical appointment. 

It was at that appointment I found out I'm in the vaulted 2%.  Apparently most people at the two week point feel mild discomfort for which they take an Aleve.  For us 2 percenters, they grudgingly have to keep trying stuff to control pain for the continual nerve inflammation.

At the post surgical appointment, high dose narcotics were prescribed.  As I was trying to understand what happens when you take high dose narcotics, and trying to explain I was worried about addiction, the physician's assistant told me he was running an hour late and we needed to move along.  He concluded the appointment by taking out the stitches and doing a sloppy job with a set of steri-strips.

Of course, no one mentioned how I'm supposed to handle the opiod constipation.  I'm still suffering anxiety because if these dope prescriptions are renewed, will I be at risk of becoming the newest member of Narcotics Anonymous?  The anxiety is mainly about what happens if I'm still hurting at these high pain levels when these prescriptions run out.

The good news is I don't hurt much.  The nerve pain has been masked, so I feel about 2-4 on the pain scale except when a dope dosage has almost worn off - then I rocket up to pain at level 6.  I'm disgruntled.  I'm depressed.  I'm anxious. I'm angry.

Then, there's EVERYTHING that Drake has been doing.  He tells me he belongs to the Clumsy Nursing Service and the Idiots Shopping Cartel when actually, he's been doing a magnificent job of taking care of someone who can't bend, twist or lift anything and who is also loopy part of the time and just a little off balance.

OK, I think I've finished complaining.

To everyone who has emailed me, texted me, called me, or sent me snail mail (my favorite), please accept my heartfelt thanks.  I love to get mail especially when I'm really down.  My favorites are the postcard in the shape of a baboon head, and the 20 line letter from a 2nd grader friend.  I'm also grateful for all the prayers being offered on my behalf.  Prayer is the best.  Oh, and the flowers I've received; those have been wonderful.  Then, there are the meals.  My friends and family have been johnnie on the spot delivering food.  (Drake is REALLY grateful for all those meals.)

I'm a lucky person who has lots of friends who go that extra mile to make me feel cherished.  I'm always telling people I write to who are ill a surefire way to pull yourself out of the depths is to count your blessings.  I have heaps and gobs of those blessings which are easy to overlook when your focus is negative.  So far, I'd give myself a C- for my mental state.  Writing this has helped me see how my attitude sucks.  Time to pull up my sox - well, actually, Drake has to do that since I can't bend over to put them on.  I guess I'm pulling up my metaphorical sox, and instituting ways to turn my mental attitude around.  I don't have time for excuses, or for more whining and I'm leaving the pity party.  I'm not sniffing up any more anger.  Hopefully, I WON'T be writing a 'Round Four' blog entry.  Thanks to all my readers for helping me clarify my thoughts and for helping me get my head screwed on straight.  (The head screw thing was one of my mother's favorites, and I always find the mental image of getting those screw threads lined up hilarious.)  See, I'm already smiling.