When I first started this blog over two years ago, the biggest issue I grappled with, other than the chronic pain, was whether or not God existed. My suffering was so great that my vision of the world became incredibly narrow, and it seemed that all I saw was suffering all around me. I couldn’t understand how God, if he existed, could let it happen.
I’ve been revisiting this question again in recent weeks as I find myself praying more, something I never thought I’d ever do again, and I’m wondering what has changed. Have I forgiven God for my state, or has my understanding of a greater power changed?
Yesterday I was doing some research, and I revisited the Amazon listing of When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Harold Kushner, a rabbi who lost his son to the premature aging disease, and was intrigued by the reader reviews. Many people gave the book five stars, thanking the good rabbi for restoring their faith in God again, but many also gave the book just one star, as they found themselves depressed by his belief in an impotent god—a god who suffers with us when we suffer, but who is powerless to intervene on our behalf.
Many readers had obviously suffered terrible tragedies in their lives, like losing a child, and they just couldn’t accept the notion of a supreme being not being able to step in with a miracle. One bereaved mother sadly said of her life, “I will never believe in God again.”
I remember having these exact feelings about my own life and about the book as well, as an impotent god seems about as good as having no god at all. While Kushner’s writing is beautiful, and his story is heartbreaking, I remember feeling sad when I first read his book, as perhaps back then I just didn’t want to believe that we live in such a random world.
Yet when I stop and think about it, I think the rabbi and I have come to similar conclusions about life and suffering—first, that random things do happen in this world, and second, that what we can count in terms of the divine is compassion, for ourselves and others.
Yet where we differ is perhaps the notion of God himself. The rabbi believes that he does indeed exist, and in his book I got the feeling that he just didn’t want to let go of the god of the Old Testament—the father figure sitting majestically in Heaven, overseeing us all in our daily lives. But what I’ve come to believe, I think, is that God is more of a force—something that moves within each of us, and manifests in the form of all good things, like truth, compassion, art and love.
While it’s true I suffer day in and day out (today was a very bad day, in fact), I have to remind myself that there are countless researchers and scientists out there who are uncovering the mysteries of pain every day, many of whom no doubt witnessed a loved one in their own lives who suffered with relentless pain.
They are motivated by compassion and love, as are all those who start research foundations to find cures for diseases. So many of these organizations are named for those who lost the fight, and it’s the loved ones left behind who become determined to right the wrong, so to speak, by not letting their loved ones die in vain. They are moved by compassion not to see other families similarly destroyed, and so they take up arms to raise money, to organize walkathons, to stimulate research.
When I pray these days, I find myself talking to the “Great Spirit,” and I’ve no idea why that particular name has surfaced. For one thing, it’s genderless in my mind, and I feel it almost like the wind—something I can’t see but that I know is there. It’s the source of all goodness, and when I speak to it, I can sometimes feel its love for me, as strange as that may sound. It’s more of a sense that it’s a force that is on my side, that is there to guide me through this treacherous minefield of life, and when I take the time to surrender my questions, I do indeed get answers, and this often startles me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve by no means figured anything out, and I doubt anyone ever will. There’s simply no way any of us will ever figure out the mysteries of the universe, no matter how deep science may delve into the matter. All we have to go on is the proof as it arises, and the proof for me are these answers I seem to get when I take the time to look deeply into my heart and humbly ask for guidance.
Do I think this is God? Whatever it is, I’m grateful for its appearance, but I’m not suffering any the less because of it. In fact, most days still blur in this lingering malaise, and I do ask frequently why I, or anyone, have had to suffer at all.
Yet in the grand scheme of things, if there is indeed an afterlife, my life on this planet will truly seem like a fraction of a second when one thinks about how long our universe has been around. And maybe then I’ll understand why I had to suffer so during this particular tenure of my life on Earth.
Does that understanding of things help me right now? A little—for the moment, anyway.
Today I watched a History Channel show about the blood diamonds in Sierra Leone, and saw suffering on such a grand scale. It was an interesting juxtaposition to watch the horrors depicted in the show interspersed with commercials that reflect the beautiful lives we enjoy in our own culture. It made me want to do something, other than just sit and watch in horror, as I know just how frightening and harrowing life can be. I thought that perhaps I should look for a job with one of these organizations and put my writing skills to better use than just as a means to pay my bills.
Perhaps that’s the god force working within me—the tangible manifestation of compassion born out of the terrible suffering of my own. Maybe that’s who and what God really is, and maybe that’s enough—for now, anyway. It’s all rather new.
******************
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, November 02, 2009
Pills For Enlightenment
It would seem impossible that I could live a life without painkillers at this moment. This morning was a bad one that required one morphine pill, a Xanax and three Vicodins to get the pain to a somewhat bearable level, but I can no longer stand what these medications are doing to my spirit.
As I felt the pain battle for supremacy in my face and jaw (despite the meds), I decided to just lay on the couch at one point and give in, to not fight, to boldly tell it to get as bad as it wants to get--that I can take it.
It's always remarkably relaxing when I do this, as I suppose in these moments I can compartmentalize the pain, set it aside, and live with it instead of fighting it. But for some reason, I seem to do this only when I arrive at the point where I'm realizing it's winning handsomely, and the only way to win the war, so to speak, is to surrender the battle.
When I do this, the pain does ease up somewhat, and I wondered this morning if this tactic would be successful if I went off pain medication altogether. It seemed like such a shockingly bold move, even stupid, but the idea intrigued me.
Yet when I significantly decreased my pain meds in an experiment last week, the pain skyrocketed, and it took two days to get it down again. It's actually been pretty bad ever since.
But I literally can't stand this medication fog anymore. As I've been so isolated and sedentary for most of the past year, I joined a gym this week, and man, what an effort not only to exercise, but just to walk over there! My malaise fought me every inch of the way, and the depressing thought kept creeping in, "Why am I bothering?"
What's keeping my hope afloat, though, are the memories of more joyous times, when, despite my problems and issues, life could also feel electric and exciting, and I would be wildly filled with creative ideas that gave me more than enough fuel to execute them.
But my days are so very different now. And I have to wonder how they fit into the overall pattern of success/defeat defeat that has defined so much of my life. If everything around us is truly connected by some kind of universal web, where past, present and future are illusions of our three-dimensional world, and if I go on the assumption that I'm here on this earthly plane to learn deep truths via the gift of free choice, then what is the lesson?
Of course, my malady may be nothing more than a freak occurrence of bad luck, but for the sake of argument, if this ordeal does somehow reflect a bigger picture, what in that picture am I missing?
When I think along these lines (which always seem to effortlessly surface during these moments of surrender), it all feels so profoundly obvious to me--that of course this is all connected, you numnut, but you just don't want to go there. You don't want to face the sheer terror of the wild blue yonder before you, and instead would prefer to stay in your hovel of pain and medication, where the space is oh so small, but oh so familiar.
As I've written about before, most of my adult life was devoted to music, to being the best singer/songwriter I could be. Those were heady times indeed, but when one is so singularly focused on JUST ONE THING in life and that thing no longer exists, it's hard to feel anchored to the earth anymore, despite my other artistic endeavors.
And why was my life devoted to JUST ONE THING? Because I felt so incapable of succeeding in love relationships. Time after time, I made such poor choices in men, which had less to do with them and more to do with my low self-esteem. And let's face it...a life without love, or even the potential for love, is hardly a life at all. I dare say my fear of intimacy borders on something pathological, and I am the less for it.
Of course, now that I'm so ill, in such pain and on so many medications, I continue to feel myself unworthy of a love relationship, but of course this is just more of my bullshit. I'm aware that I'm actually quite good (for the most part) at handling extremely difficult physical conditions, and I'm also aware that no one is perfect; that we all have our proverbial crosses to bear and baggage to unload. Pain and illness does not deem me unlovable, but in my own mind, it gives me an excuse to melodramatically retreat, which is made all the easier by the fatigue created by the meds.
It's a vicious cycle indeed. Pain and fatigue keep me isolated, yet isolation keeps me away from any possibility of love, which would restore much-needed balance in my life, whether the pain was there or not.
It's certainly no easy thing to wake up with severe pain in the morning, and would be harder still to take a stab at not medicating it, but something has got to give. I've become frozen in time, remembering the person I used to be, yet only vaguely seeing the person I could become. And therein, perhaps, lies the rub.
With all previous definitions of myself shattered, who am I now, and who do I want to be? Where do I go from here? I can't see it, and this terrifies me, frankly. And with pain taking up so much real estate in my brain, it's difficult to formulate a new vision for myself or for anything...even some nutty creative endeavor.
Before all this happened, I was actually feeling okay about setting the music aside for awhile, by exploring new paths, by venturing forward full speed ahead in faith and love.
But of course, my faith was shattered, too, when pain exploded onto the scene. God not only vacated his co-pilot seat in my life; he actually hit the ejector button, leaving me to crash land in some foreign sea all on my own. I've been trying hard ever since not to drown.
And so my present is now largely defined by reruns of Criminal Minds. Nothing soothes the tortured soul, it seems, like stories of sociopathic serial killers.
I watched a preacher today during a Sunday morning TV program, and he talked about faith, about putting our troubles in God's hands. He focused mainly on the recession and the joblessness that many of his followers were no doubt experiencing, noting Bible passages that basically said to quit worrying, have faith that God will provide, and just enjoy your life.
When it comes to money and my freelance work, I can get with that. But how those parables apply to someone in chronic pain still has me stumped. Maybe they don't apply, or can't. Once again, I'm reminded of Buddhist teachings that say there will always be suffering in life; the trick is to rise above it (no matter how harsh the circumstances), relinquish your attachments, and enjoy the bliss that ensues.
But I'm told by this one Buddhist sect that I'll have to chant two to three hours a day to attain this enlightenment. Huh? What? Is this a joke? I get impatient with how long it takes to walk to my kitchen. Can't they just make a pill for it?
**************************************
Note: Watercolors are some new entries in my illustrated journal. I'm using them as inspiration to get back to my flamenco classes!
**************************************
As I felt the pain battle for supremacy in my face and jaw (despite the meds), I decided to just lay on the couch at one point and give in, to not fight, to boldly tell it to get as bad as it wants to get--that I can take it.
It's always remarkably relaxing when I do this, as I suppose in these moments I can compartmentalize the pain, set it aside, and live with it instead of fighting it. But for some reason, I seem to do this only when I arrive at the point where I'm realizing it's winning handsomely, and the only way to win the war, so to speak, is to surrender the battle.When I do this, the pain does ease up somewhat, and I wondered this morning if this tactic would be successful if I went off pain medication altogether. It seemed like such a shockingly bold move, even stupid, but the idea intrigued me.
Yet when I significantly decreased my pain meds in an experiment last week, the pain skyrocketed, and it took two days to get it down again. It's actually been pretty bad ever since.
But I literally can't stand this medication fog anymore. As I've been so isolated and sedentary for most of the past year, I joined a gym this week, and man, what an effort not only to exercise, but just to walk over there! My malaise fought me every inch of the way, and the depressing thought kept creeping in, "Why am I bothering?"
What's keeping my hope afloat, though, are the memories of more joyous times, when, despite my problems and issues, life could also feel electric and exciting, and I would be wildly filled with creative ideas that gave me more than enough fuel to execute them.
But my days are so very different now. And I have to wonder how they fit into the overall pattern of success/defeat defeat that has defined so much of my life. If everything around us is truly connected by some kind of universal web, where past, present and future are illusions of our three-dimensional world, and if I go on the assumption that I'm here on this earthly plane to learn deep truths via the gift of free choice, then what is the lesson?
Of course, my malady may be nothing more than a freak occurrence of bad luck, but for the sake of argument, if this ordeal does somehow reflect a bigger picture, what in that picture am I missing?
When I think along these lines (which always seem to effortlessly surface during these moments of surrender), it all feels so profoundly obvious to me--that of course this is all connected, you numnut, but you just don't want to go there. You don't want to face the sheer terror of the wild blue yonder before you, and instead would prefer to stay in your hovel of pain and medication, where the space is oh so small, but oh so familiar.
As I've written about before, most of my adult life was devoted to music, to being the best singer/songwriter I could be. Those were heady times indeed, but when one is so singularly focused on JUST ONE THING in life and that thing no longer exists, it's hard to feel anchored to the earth anymore, despite my other artistic endeavors.
And why was my life devoted to JUST ONE THING? Because I felt so incapable of succeeding in love relationships. Time after time, I made such poor choices in men, which had less to do with them and more to do with my low self-esteem. And let's face it...a life without love, or even the potential for love, is hardly a life at all. I dare say my fear of intimacy borders on something pathological, and I am the less for it.
Of course, now that I'm so ill, in such pain and on so many medications, I continue to feel myself unworthy of a love relationship, but of course this is just more of my bullshit. I'm aware that I'm actually quite good (for the most part) at handling extremely difficult physical conditions, and I'm also aware that no one is perfect; that we all have our proverbial crosses to bear and baggage to unload. Pain and illness does not deem me unlovable, but in my own mind, it gives me an excuse to melodramatically retreat, which is made all the easier by the fatigue created by the meds.
It's a vicious cycle indeed. Pain and fatigue keep me isolated, yet isolation keeps me away from any possibility of love, which would restore much-needed balance in my life, whether the pain was there or not.
It's certainly no easy thing to wake up with severe pain in the morning, and would be harder still to take a stab at not medicating it, but something has got to give. I've become frozen in time, remembering the person I used to be, yet only vaguely seeing the person I could become. And therein, perhaps, lies the rub.
With all previous definitions of myself shattered, who am I now, and who do I want to be? Where do I go from here? I can't see it, and this terrifies me, frankly. And with pain taking up so much real estate in my brain, it's difficult to formulate a new vision for myself or for anything...even some nutty creative endeavor.
Before all this happened, I was actually feeling okay about setting the music aside for awhile, by exploring new paths, by venturing forward full speed ahead in faith and love.
But of course, my faith was shattered, too, when pain exploded onto the scene. God not only vacated his co-pilot seat in my life; he actually hit the ejector button, leaving me to crash land in some foreign sea all on my own. I've been trying hard ever since not to drown.
And so my present is now largely defined by reruns of Criminal Minds. Nothing soothes the tortured soul, it seems, like stories of sociopathic serial killers.
I watched a preacher today during a Sunday morning TV program, and he talked about faith, about putting our troubles in God's hands. He focused mainly on the recession and the joblessness that many of his followers were no doubt experiencing, noting Bible passages that basically said to quit worrying, have faith that God will provide, and just enjoy your life.
When it comes to money and my freelance work, I can get with that. But how those parables apply to someone in chronic pain still has me stumped. Maybe they don't apply, or can't. Once again, I'm reminded of Buddhist teachings that say there will always be suffering in life; the trick is to rise above it (no matter how harsh the circumstances), relinquish your attachments, and enjoy the bliss that ensues.
But I'm told by this one Buddhist sect that I'll have to chant two to three hours a day to attain this enlightenment. Huh? What? Is this a joke? I get impatient with how long it takes to walk to my kitchen. Can't they just make a pill for it?
**************************************
Note: Watercolors are some new entries in my illustrated journal. I'm using them as inspiration to get back to my flamenco classes!
**************************************
Thursday, August 06, 2009
When Love Is Enough
I awoke this morning with an aching emptiness, as I knew this was a day that I was going to take a much harder look at myself, without the crutch of abusive substances.
What's been a little disturbing lately is my glass of wine in late afternoon, after my day is pretty much done. It's never been a problem, nor even a daily habit, but I've noticed this past week or so that the time I pour it has been inching up by a half-hour or so, and yesterday I poured a small amount at about 2:30 p.m. instead of my usual 4 p.m. or after.
While my intake has remained the same, this earlier start is scaring me, as it should, and when I went to sleep last night, I promised myself that today, no matter how well I'd be able to resist the clutches of pain medication, smoking and now wine, I would at least take a hard look at my feelings, and the best mirrors I've got are my private journal and this blog.
What's so interesting about these promises we make to ourselves is that most of the time they're half-hearted, something we say to make ourselves feel better for the moment, but never really put into action. But then there are those occasions when we know we mean it, and that's when life can get scary indeed.
Even before I began journal writing today, my anxiety level was up, almost as a type of wall to prevent me from this little trip into the unknown. But I stuck to my guns, made a cup of coffee, watched the last few minutes of a Sopranos rerun (no matter how bad things are, I have to see what Tony is up to), did not light up a smoke, and began writing.
I wish I could say that some startling insight was uncovered, but instead, what became as plain as day was that the pain in my jaw is still holding on with a fierce grip, and I literally felt sadness wash over me like a wave.
Somehow, in recent months, I've been distracted from the pain by family drama, by new freelance writing assignments, by trips to the shore to help my parents, and, of course, by pain medication.
When I told my doctor last week that I was taking way too much Vicodin, he switched me to MSContin, which is morphine sulphate in pill form. While that may somehow sound more dangerous in terms of addiction, for me it's a better choice in that I actually take less medication yet get better pain control. And I don't get the mood lift I was getting from the Vicodin, which, to be honest, is something I've come to miss.
With MSContin, the medication is released slowly over the course of 8 hours, so there's no rush, and therefore no quick and easy escape from the pain and sadness of my condition.
When I just sat with my feelings this morning, not having any deadlines looming or any particular place to be, there was a stillness there, a lack of motivation of any kind, which was in such stark contrast to just yesterday morning, when I felt like I had the world on a string, making all kinds of plans for a type of playday as a reward for meeting a big deadline--first to ride my bike, then to paint at my studio.
Those plans changed, of course, when I took that first sip of wine at 2:30, and interest in anything else simply and quickly waned. I cursed my behavior, vowing to do better today, and indeed I have. I've had one dose of medication and one cigarette, and it's now nearing 2 p.m. And I've made plans to meet a friend in about a half-hour.
But the pain in my face has me reaching--that feeling of wanting to grab something, anything, that will make me feel better, that will quell the loneliness that comes with chronic pain and constant disappointment.
At this particular moment, I suppose I need to just have faith, not in God, per se, but in the realization that in resisting the reach, I will feel better overall--maybe not now, but perhaps tomorrow, or the next day. That's hard to see in the moments of deep sorrow or wrenching pain, or in the throes of an addiction spell. When the latter occurs, it feels like every cell in my body is screaming for relief, and turning a deaf ear for the five minutes or so it takes for a craving to pass can feel like a lifetime.
I talked to a friend about faith earlier today, and I can see that I haven't lost it--it's just changed shape. When I pray now, I don't use the word God anymore, as it's attached to just too much baggage from my Catholic upbringing.
I pray to the "Universal Spirit" instead, which when I shorten it to the letters "U" and "S," spells "us." And that's something I can get with indeed.
All this misery has made me feel the love of others and within myself in ways I never have before, and as I said to my friend this morning, in terms of faith, love is enough. I don't need to pray to some great being in the sky, but I do need to pray to whatever the mysterious source is of all this deep compassion. When I pray to this universal spirit of love, I feel it, and I feel it for me in particular.
That's new.
***************************
What's been a little disturbing lately is my glass of wine in late afternoon, after my day is pretty much done. It's never been a problem, nor even a daily habit, but I've noticed this past week or so that the time I pour it has been inching up by a half-hour or so, and yesterday I poured a small amount at about 2:30 p.m. instead of my usual 4 p.m. or after.
While my intake has remained the same, this earlier start is scaring me, as it should, and when I went to sleep last night, I promised myself that today, no matter how well I'd be able to resist the clutches of pain medication, smoking and now wine, I would at least take a hard look at my feelings, and the best mirrors I've got are my private journal and this blog.
What's so interesting about these promises we make to ourselves is that most of the time they're half-hearted, something we say to make ourselves feel better for the moment, but never really put into action. But then there are those occasions when we know we mean it, and that's when life can get scary indeed.
Even before I began journal writing today, my anxiety level was up, almost as a type of wall to prevent me from this little trip into the unknown. But I stuck to my guns, made a cup of coffee, watched the last few minutes of a Sopranos rerun (no matter how bad things are, I have to see what Tony is up to), did not light up a smoke, and began writing.
I wish I could say that some startling insight was uncovered, but instead, what became as plain as day was that the pain in my jaw is still holding on with a fierce grip, and I literally felt sadness wash over me like a wave.
Somehow, in recent months, I've been distracted from the pain by family drama, by new freelance writing assignments, by trips to the shore to help my parents, and, of course, by pain medication.
When I told my doctor last week that I was taking way too much Vicodin, he switched me to MSContin, which is morphine sulphate in pill form. While that may somehow sound more dangerous in terms of addiction, for me it's a better choice in that I actually take less medication yet get better pain control. And I don't get the mood lift I was getting from the Vicodin, which, to be honest, is something I've come to miss.
With MSContin, the medication is released slowly over the course of 8 hours, so there's no rush, and therefore no quick and easy escape from the pain and sadness of my condition.
When I just sat with my feelings this morning, not having any deadlines looming or any particular place to be, there was a stillness there, a lack of motivation of any kind, which was in such stark contrast to just yesterday morning, when I felt like I had the world on a string, making all kinds of plans for a type of playday as a reward for meeting a big deadline--first to ride my bike, then to paint at my studio.
Those plans changed, of course, when I took that first sip of wine at 2:30, and interest in anything else simply and quickly waned. I cursed my behavior, vowing to do better today, and indeed I have. I've had one dose of medication and one cigarette, and it's now nearing 2 p.m. And I've made plans to meet a friend in about a half-hour.
But the pain in my face has me reaching--that feeling of wanting to grab something, anything, that will make me feel better, that will quell the loneliness that comes with chronic pain and constant disappointment.
At this particular moment, I suppose I need to just have faith, not in God, per se, but in the realization that in resisting the reach, I will feel better overall--maybe not now, but perhaps tomorrow, or the next day. That's hard to see in the moments of deep sorrow or wrenching pain, or in the throes of an addiction spell. When the latter occurs, it feels like every cell in my body is screaming for relief, and turning a deaf ear for the five minutes or so it takes for a craving to pass can feel like a lifetime.
I talked to a friend about faith earlier today, and I can see that I haven't lost it--it's just changed shape. When I pray now, I don't use the word God anymore, as it's attached to just too much baggage from my Catholic upbringing.
I pray to the "Universal Spirit" instead, which when I shorten it to the letters "U" and "S," spells "us." And that's something I can get with indeed.
All this misery has made me feel the love of others and within myself in ways I never have before, and as I said to my friend this morning, in terms of faith, love is enough. I don't need to pray to some great being in the sky, but I do need to pray to whatever the mysterious source is of all this deep compassion. When I pray to this universal spirit of love, I feel it, and I feel it for me in particular.
That's new.
***************************
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Taming of the Blue
It's been a little over a year since I wrote my History Repeating post about the plague that engulfed Europe in 1347. Like a number of essays on this blog, it was inspired by a show on the History Channel, which just happened to air again yesterday.
I was just as fascinated with the program as I was 13 months ago, but what was even more intriguing was my very different response to it this time around.
Last year at this time, I was in such a state of profound questioning about God, railing against life's unfairness, and feeling that I'd somehow been singled out by my creator to suffer extreme and unending pain for reasons known only to him. My intellect grappled with this daily, on the one hand clearly seeing that I was just an unfortunate victim of circumstance, but on the other, feeling some deep sense of deserving this punishment, and maybe more hopefully, feeling that this was part of some divine plan designed to teach me something profound.
In hindsight, no matter how you look at it, any response I was having was tremendously self-centered, and I say that not as a self-criticism, but as a simple, if uncomfortable, observation.
Of course, it's natural to focus entirely on oneself when physical agony sets the tone for the day, but all that grappling with profound questions has led me to a curious state of being indeed, and one that I didn't at all expect, for in all my questioning about God, the place I'm being led is not to the heavens, but back to earth, upon which I feel like I'm walking for the very first time.
I've always been somewhat of a heady character, and in fact used to joke that my body was the thing that simply carried my head around. In being a creative person absorbed in the arts, I was always writing songs or painting pictures, and when I wasn't doing that, I was pondering the after-effects of therapy in order to unravel a more happy existence. In short, my head was in some very stormy clouds nearly all of the time, and the world around me was something I witnessed but kept at a distance, as I was the star of the show, so to speak, slightly removed and certainly above the mundane world of ordinary folks.
In short, I suppose I was something of a snob, albeit a nice one, but my niceness in no way affected my ambitions to be bigger, bolder and better in nearly everything I did.
What a moron.
I can see this so clearly now, and while a little embarrassed by it, I couldn't be more thankful that this old crusty cloak is slowly disintegrating all around me, and I do have to wonder if this horrible, awful, painful ordeal has had anything to do with it.
Two weeks ago, I had yet another surgery on my jaw, and by all accounts, it seems that my attempts to rid myself of pain have failed yet again. In fact, I may have even made matters worse, as the wound and bone refuse to heal.
This landed me at a local hospital's wound center last week, where I'm on deck (if Medicare approves it) to receive treatment in a hyperbaric chamber, which will be six weeks of being locked in a pressurized glass tube three hours a day. I'm told that this will force more oxygen into my system, thus destroying all bacteria and fostering growth of new blood vessels. Apparently, my chances are 50/50 in terms of pain relief, which before might have depressed me, but now...well...I'm not sure it matters which way the wind blows.
I felt this same way just before my surgery, in fact, which was in such stark contrast to so many of the other surgeries these past five years. I used to pray so hard for a positive outcome, only to be devastated when those prayers weren't answered. In many ways, I felt exactly like the plague victims, who turned to God and their faith for relief from their terrorizing torture, only to be ignored and left to their own devices. Clearly, the god of their understanding became irrelevant when it really counted, just like my own understanding of God and faith faltered when the going got tough.
When I take a closer look, I can see now that I was asking all the wrong questions and focusing on (and praying for) all the wrong things. While it was certainly appropriate and understandable for me to rage at my fate, I can see now that this ordeal has taken me completely out of my head and landed me squarely on my feet, where I now feel the dirt and sand between my toes in ways I never have before.
What's so startling is how I now move in my world. Despite the pain, no matter where I go, I seem to laugh and talk with just about everyone, and I'm quick to help when I see someone in a jam, whether it be a mother struggling to get her baby stroller up the subway steps, or an old lady waiting in the rain at a bus stop, who I pick up and drive home. I hate to think that I didn't help in these ways before, but what I'm guessing is that I just didn't see these situations, as I was too blinded by heady concepts and my own ambition.
In a waiting room the other day, for example, I began playing with three little brothers as if I'd known them my whole life, and in short order had everyone in the room laughing with our antics. The connection was instant, strong and barrier-free. I complimented their mom and dad on their beautiful family, and was warmed by the very thought of these three little devils for the rest of the day.
This may not sound like a big deal, but I can't really remember this ever happening before. When I say I talk with and smile at everyone, I mean everyone, and this glorious, bustling city I live in provides ample opportunity to flex my new friendly and outgoing muscles. I crack wise with cops and politicians, I have coffee with artist friends at local cafes, and I thank my bus driver after every single ride.
Oddly enough, as I write this, I'm actually having a very bad day. The pain is as bad as it ever was, which often leads to combustible outbursts of tears and long periods of sleep.
In a sense, the malaise and sadness about this condition haven't changed, but what has changed is that I don't expect to not suffer anymore. When I look at the world at large, either now or in the past, great suffering certainly isn't anything new, or anything unique to me. Maybe the trick to my ultimate contentment will be to be at rest with what is and to use that as the stuff of glorious, creative absorption, which is, of course, the ultimate painkiller.
It sounds so simple, but it's quite hard for me not to define myself by my accomplishments. No wonder this pain has caused such suffering on so many levels, as it has forced me to sit still and think, to rest, to just be. For so long, I felt like my accomplishments had to be huge in order for them to matter to the world, to make a difference. I'm only beginning to see that a smile exchange with just one person can light a spark for us both that can illuminate an entire hour, or more.
I should know in a day or two if Medicare will approve the hyperbaric treatment. If that does happen, I'm not expecting much, other than some claustrophobia and maybe some nice encounters with staff, who I suspect I'll get to know quite well. Maybe there'll be some kids in the waiting room.
**********************************
I was just as fascinated with the program as I was 13 months ago, but what was even more intriguing was my very different response to it this time around.
Last year at this time, I was in such a state of profound questioning about God, railing against life's unfairness, and feeling that I'd somehow been singled out by my creator to suffer extreme and unending pain for reasons known only to him. My intellect grappled with this daily, on the one hand clearly seeing that I was just an unfortunate victim of circumstance, but on the other, feeling some deep sense of deserving this punishment, and maybe more hopefully, feeling that this was part of some divine plan designed to teach me something profound.
In hindsight, no matter how you look at it, any response I was having was tremendously self-centered, and I say that not as a self-criticism, but as a simple, if uncomfortable, observation.
Of course, it's natural to focus entirely on oneself when physical agony sets the tone for the day, but all that grappling with profound questions has led me to a curious state of being indeed, and one that I didn't at all expect, for in all my questioning about God, the place I'm being led is not to the heavens, but back to earth, upon which I feel like I'm walking for the very first time.
I've always been somewhat of a heady character, and in fact used to joke that my body was the thing that simply carried my head around. In being a creative person absorbed in the arts, I was always writing songs or painting pictures, and when I wasn't doing that, I was pondering the after-effects of therapy in order to unravel a more happy existence. In short, my head was in some very stormy clouds nearly all of the time, and the world around me was something I witnessed but kept at a distance, as I was the star of the show, so to speak, slightly removed and certainly above the mundane world of ordinary folks.
In short, I suppose I was something of a snob, albeit a nice one, but my niceness in no way affected my ambitions to be bigger, bolder and better in nearly everything I did.
What a moron.
I can see this so clearly now, and while a little embarrassed by it, I couldn't be more thankful that this old crusty cloak is slowly disintegrating all around me, and I do have to wonder if this horrible, awful, painful ordeal has had anything to do with it.
Two weeks ago, I had yet another surgery on my jaw, and by all accounts, it seems that my attempts to rid myself of pain have failed yet again. In fact, I may have even made matters worse, as the wound and bone refuse to heal.
This landed me at a local hospital's wound center last week, where I'm on deck (if Medicare approves it) to receive treatment in a hyperbaric chamber, which will be six weeks of being locked in a pressurized glass tube three hours a day. I'm told that this will force more oxygen into my system, thus destroying all bacteria and fostering growth of new blood vessels. Apparently, my chances are 50/50 in terms of pain relief, which before might have depressed me, but now...well...I'm not sure it matters which way the wind blows.
I felt this same way just before my surgery, in fact, which was in such stark contrast to so many of the other surgeries these past five years. I used to pray so hard for a positive outcome, only to be devastated when those prayers weren't answered. In many ways, I felt exactly like the plague victims, who turned to God and their faith for relief from their terrorizing torture, only to be ignored and left to their own devices. Clearly, the god of their understanding became irrelevant when it really counted, just like my own understanding of God and faith faltered when the going got tough.
When I take a closer look, I can see now that I was asking all the wrong questions and focusing on (and praying for) all the wrong things. While it was certainly appropriate and understandable for me to rage at my fate, I can see now that this ordeal has taken me completely out of my head and landed me squarely on my feet, where I now feel the dirt and sand between my toes in ways I never have before.
What's so startling is how I now move in my world. Despite the pain, no matter where I go, I seem to laugh and talk with just about everyone, and I'm quick to help when I see someone in a jam, whether it be a mother struggling to get her baby stroller up the subway steps, or an old lady waiting in the rain at a bus stop, who I pick up and drive home. I hate to think that I didn't help in these ways before, but what I'm guessing is that I just didn't see these situations, as I was too blinded by heady concepts and my own ambition.
In a waiting room the other day, for example, I began playing with three little brothers as if I'd known them my whole life, and in short order had everyone in the room laughing with our antics. The connection was instant, strong and barrier-free. I complimented their mom and dad on their beautiful family, and was warmed by the very thought of these three little devils for the rest of the day.
This may not sound like a big deal, but I can't really remember this ever happening before. When I say I talk with and smile at everyone, I mean everyone, and this glorious, bustling city I live in provides ample opportunity to flex my new friendly and outgoing muscles. I crack wise with cops and politicians, I have coffee with artist friends at local cafes, and I thank my bus driver after every single ride.
Oddly enough, as I write this, I'm actually having a very bad day. The pain is as bad as it ever was, which often leads to combustible outbursts of tears and long periods of sleep.
In a sense, the malaise and sadness about this condition haven't changed, but what has changed is that I don't expect to not suffer anymore. When I look at the world at large, either now or in the past, great suffering certainly isn't anything new, or anything unique to me. Maybe the trick to my ultimate contentment will be to be at rest with what is and to use that as the stuff of glorious, creative absorption, which is, of course, the ultimate painkiller.
It sounds so simple, but it's quite hard for me not to define myself by my accomplishments. No wonder this pain has caused such suffering on so many levels, as it has forced me to sit still and think, to rest, to just be. For so long, I felt like my accomplishments had to be huge in order for them to matter to the world, to make a difference. I'm only beginning to see that a smile exchange with just one person can light a spark for us both that can illuminate an entire hour, or more.
I should know in a day or two if Medicare will approve the hyperbaric treatment. If that does happen, I'm not expecting much, other than some claustrophobia and maybe some nice encounters with staff, who I suspect I'll get to know quite well. Maybe there'll be some kids in the waiting room.
**********************************
Sunday, May 18, 2008
History Repeating
The History Channel had a show on about the plague this afternoon. Half the population of Europe died because of it, and the surviving population was devastated psychologically as a result, questioning the meaning of life. I get this. Families watched one another die tortured, agonzing, senseless deaths. Talk about misery.
Not surprisingly, they all thought God was punishing their evil ways, but in watching this show with the wisdom of hindsight, it's clear that it was just a tragic thing that, well, happened. It wasn't God; it was a pathogen that half the people couldn't fight off. It spread from England to China, and some Christian Europeans began flagellating themselves, thinking that maybe inflicting more suffering on their bodies would somehow stop the insanity.
In my own case, I sometimes think God is punishing me, too, for some evil deed committed in maybe a previous life, or that he's trying to teach me a lesson that I somehow refuse to learn.
But if I'm going to learn anything from history, sometimes things just, well, happen. There's nothing inherently good or bad to the event. As humans, we're simply organisms prone to infection, like bugs, or dogs, or even the dinosaurs, who could actually get cancer.
Many desperately want to believe that things like disease happen to us because of stress, unresolved rage, because we're not spiritual enough, or because we're not understanding the mind/body connection. While there may be some truth to this, another truth is that bad things do indeed happen to good people for no reason at all. Accidents happen, disease happens, as does death. There's no escaping it. Believing there's reasons for it is simply a vain attempt to control it. If we can blame the patient somehow, then we think it won't happen to us.
The History Channel ended on a positive note, saying that the plague ushered in a new era of thinking. People began questioning the Church's authority, now defining God for themselves, and because of the loss of the work force, labor-saving machines were invented that were the very beginnings of the industrial age.
The most positive thing that developed was the beginning of the Renaissance--a rebirth of art, culture and science.
Like the plague survivors, I don't know about this God thing either. But I'm certainly not going to flagellate myself, nor blame anyone else for my misery. (The Christian flagellators actually blamed the Jews for the catastrophe.) The best I can hope for is some kind of rebirth of my own...a new person that will rise from the wreckage.
That's hard to fathom at the moment, as I'm still swirling in a haze of pain and addiction. The plague had to run its course, and perhaps my own dark days have to run theirs, as well. This has been going on for an awful long time, though. Years now.
I'm exhausted.
Not surprisingly, they all thought God was punishing their evil ways, but in watching this show with the wisdom of hindsight, it's clear that it was just a tragic thing that, well, happened. It wasn't God; it was a pathogen that half the people couldn't fight off. It spread from England to China, and some Christian Europeans began flagellating themselves, thinking that maybe inflicting more suffering on their bodies would somehow stop the insanity.
In my own case, I sometimes think God is punishing me, too, for some evil deed committed in maybe a previous life, or that he's trying to teach me a lesson that I somehow refuse to learn.
But if I'm going to learn anything from history, sometimes things just, well, happen. There's nothing inherently good or bad to the event. As humans, we're simply organisms prone to infection, like bugs, or dogs, or even the dinosaurs, who could actually get cancer.
Many desperately want to believe that things like disease happen to us because of stress, unresolved rage, because we're not spiritual enough, or because we're not understanding the mind/body connection. While there may be some truth to this, another truth is that bad things do indeed happen to good people for no reason at all. Accidents happen, disease happens, as does death. There's no escaping it. Believing there's reasons for it is simply a vain attempt to control it. If we can blame the patient somehow, then we think it won't happen to us.
The History Channel ended on a positive note, saying that the plague ushered in a new era of thinking. People began questioning the Church's authority, now defining God for themselves, and because of the loss of the work force, labor-saving machines were invented that were the very beginnings of the industrial age.
The most positive thing that developed was the beginning of the Renaissance--a rebirth of art, culture and science.
Like the plague survivors, I don't know about this God thing either. But I'm certainly not going to flagellate myself, nor blame anyone else for my misery. (The Christian flagellators actually blamed the Jews for the catastrophe.) The best I can hope for is some kind of rebirth of my own...a new person that will rise from the wreckage.
That's hard to fathom at the moment, as I'm still swirling in a haze of pain and addiction. The plague had to run its course, and perhaps my own dark days have to run theirs, as well. This has been going on for an awful long time, though. Years now.
I'm exhausted.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Wager, Anyone?
I'm on and off the pain meds. Luckily, they're again entrusted to a friend so that I take them as prescribed. In my possession, they're absolutely diabolical. I watch my hand go up to my mouth with yet another pill as if I'm not in control of my own body parts. I suppose I'm not.
Yesterday, I attempted to completely go without pain meds, as I did most of the day before. When the pain went through the roof, I called my sponsor, Mary, which I don't often do. In pain, I tend to isolate as my emotions are so overwhelming that I assume they will overwhelm others. I cry so hard that I'm barely coherent. But I called, telling her that the reason I haven't been able to write down my perception of my Higher Power (an assignment she had given me) is that I feel there isn't one for me.
The funny thing about recovery is that at meetings, I'm often listening to people talk about how wonderful their lives have become with sobriety and this newfound relationship with their God. What's difficult is that I know exactly what they're talking about, as I had this exact relationship with my creator before this disaster set in. I prayed for my divine purpose (as opposed to what I thought I should be doing with my life), I surrendered vexing problems, my ego was far less involved in my life than it had been, and I was of service to my community.
All of these things are in the "promises" of the rooms. And I agree, when you live your life that way, it gets better. For the 18 months before my hemmorhage, I was happier than I'd ever been, and my life, although not perfect, seemed on a continued upward path towards betterment. I suppose I had some kind of hubris that with God as my co-pilot, what could go wrong? Really wrong?
Well, what went wrong far exceeded anything I could have ever imagined, and despite prayers and pleadings and countless affirmations, nothing changed. The pain was all-consuming and untreatable. I had to live with it 24/7. I went to bed with it and woke up with it.
And my spirituality ended up in the toilet, along with the question, "How could any loving creator create such potential for this type of suffering?" My answer was one of two things: Either there wasn't a God, or if he does exist, he certainly ain't loving.
So when I now hear all my recovery pals talk about their union with this great spirit, I think them delusional. They say they found God when they hit their bottom, thinking they'll never find themselves there again, or if they DO find themselves there again, it will be because of something THEY have done, like picking up. They often say of their darkest days, "God didn't leave me; I left God." They think God will never leave them now if they continue "to do the next right thing."
Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?
Yesterday, I attempted to completely go without pain meds, as I did most of the day before. When the pain went through the roof, I called my sponsor, Mary, which I don't often do. In pain, I tend to isolate as my emotions are so overwhelming that I assume they will overwhelm others. I cry so hard that I'm barely coherent. But I called, telling her that the reason I haven't been able to write down my perception of my Higher Power (an assignment she had given me) is that I feel there isn't one for me.
The funny thing about recovery is that at meetings, I'm often listening to people talk about how wonderful their lives have become with sobriety and this newfound relationship with their God. What's difficult is that I know exactly what they're talking about, as I had this exact relationship with my creator before this disaster set in. I prayed for my divine purpose (as opposed to what I thought I should be doing with my life), I surrendered vexing problems, my ego was far less involved in my life than it had been, and I was of service to my community.
All of these things are in the "promises" of the rooms. And I agree, when you live your life that way, it gets better. For the 18 months before my hemmorhage, I was happier than I'd ever been, and my life, although not perfect, seemed on a continued upward path towards betterment. I suppose I had some kind of hubris that with God as my co-pilot, what could go wrong? Really wrong?
Well, what went wrong far exceeded anything I could have ever imagined, and despite prayers and pleadings and countless affirmations, nothing changed. The pain was all-consuming and untreatable. I had to live with it 24/7. I went to bed with it and woke up with it.
And my spirituality ended up in the toilet, along with the question, "How could any loving creator create such potential for this type of suffering?" My answer was one of two things: Either there wasn't a God, or if he does exist, he certainly ain't loving.
So when I now hear all my recovery pals talk about their union with this great spirit, I think them delusional. They say they found God when they hit their bottom, thinking they'll never find themselves there again, or if they DO find themselves there again, it will be because of something THEY have done, like picking up. They often say of their darkest days, "God didn't leave me; I left God." They think God will never leave them now if they continue "to do the next right thing."
Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The End of Days
It's May 1st. I can't believe it. Time flies when nothing happens. But that's not really true. A lot has happened this year. I went into rehab March 19 to get off painkillers and stayed for 16 days. They practiced the whole 12-step thing there, which has gotten me into the habit now of going to meetings.
They're very nice, and I love the people (who wouldn't love a bunch of former massive partyers?), but I find it somehwat humorous that amidst this scrappy bunch of misfits, I don't fit in. If only I'd gotten addicted to painkillers for any other reason than pain, then this whole program might mean something to me. I actually envy their connection to one another, and more important, to their Higher Power.
They attribute all their suffering to their former spiritual bankruptcy, their ego and their will. I attribute all of my suffering to untractable, untreatable physical pain, along with depression, despair and a complete abandonment by my "Higher Power." I'm open to the fact that maybe my ego or will or deficient spirit got me into this mess, but it's hard to see how all that can affect bone marrow. It hasn't affected anyone else in the rooms that way. Why me? (And please don't say, "Why NOT you?" JUST DON'T SAY IT.)
Which leads me to the title of this post, "The End of Days." That's right. This is it. My apocalypse of sorts. I'm done with this God thing. No more praying or surrendering or asking why or turning over my will, etc. IT DOESN'T WORK. True, when the pain gets awful, my prayers are of the foxhole sort, which are perhaps perceived as annoying or insincere to any higher power, but still, I need a break. I need an insight. I need money.
My AA pals say, "Keep coming back! Wait for the miracle!" Do they mean the miracle that will heal this jaw pain? Are they delusional? Or am I? Is there some profound connection I'm not seeing?
All I know is that I've been praying to a God who's unmerciful, cruel, sadistic and a bad listener. Time to change Gods.
They're very nice, and I love the people (who wouldn't love a bunch of former massive partyers?), but I find it somehwat humorous that amidst this scrappy bunch of misfits, I don't fit in. If only I'd gotten addicted to painkillers for any other reason than pain, then this whole program might mean something to me. I actually envy their connection to one another, and more important, to their Higher Power.
They attribute all their suffering to their former spiritual bankruptcy, their ego and their will. I attribute all of my suffering to untractable, untreatable physical pain, along with depression, despair and a complete abandonment by my "Higher Power." I'm open to the fact that maybe my ego or will or deficient spirit got me into this mess, but it's hard to see how all that can affect bone marrow. It hasn't affected anyone else in the rooms that way. Why me? (And please don't say, "Why NOT you?" JUST DON'T SAY IT.)
Which leads me to the title of this post, "The End of Days." That's right. This is it. My apocalypse of sorts. I'm done with this God thing. No more praying or surrendering or asking why or turning over my will, etc. IT DOESN'T WORK. True, when the pain gets awful, my prayers are of the foxhole sort, which are perhaps perceived as annoying or insincere to any higher power, but still, I need a break. I need an insight. I need money.
My AA pals say, "Keep coming back! Wait for the miracle!" Do they mean the miracle that will heal this jaw pain? Are they delusional? Or am I? Is there some profound connection I'm not seeing?
All I know is that I've been praying to a God who's unmerciful, cruel, sadistic and a bad listener. Time to change Gods.
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