You're going to do WHAT?

When the bad days erupt, they can feel like a slow controlled explosion, with each passing hour feeling worse than the one that just came before.


This past week, I’ve been trying to reduce my morphine dose, as I’m seeing a new holistic doctor in New York City, who has put me on a nutritional regimen that is suppose to reduce my pain. But I’m still on a hefty dose of the stuff, which combined with all these new vitamins he has me on, landed me in the hospital the other night with a case of constipation that was literally off the charts.

As embarrassing as telling this tale might be, it’s a grim and somewhat common reality that anyone who takes opiates, whether by choice or not, must deal with the sometimes extreme irregularity it causes, and Saturday night at 3 a.m. will go down in the annals of my life as yet another indignity my poor body has suffered as a result of this unrelenting pain.

It’s happened before—this extreme constipation, indelicately called fecal impaction—but somehow I was always able to, er…well, push through. You would think that one would be able to tackle the problem with some basic laxatives long before it would get to these end stages, but for some reason, it often can happen hard and fast (oh, these puns), with little warning that a huge amount of cement is building up where it ain’t supposed to be.

Each time it’s happened, I’ve sworn that it would be the last time, that I would do whatever it took to prevent these occurrences, but the new supplements must have been my undoing this week, for when the clock struck around 3 a.m. Saturday morning, and all measures I’d been employing for the previous eight hours or so had failed, I intuitively knew I’d been beaten and that this time, I’d have to go to the emergency room, as even waiting until morning could make this dangerous case even more perilous to my health. Plus, having a brick sitting in your bowel feels like, well…a brick sitting in your bowel, and you want it out as quickly as humanly possible.

I did get myself to the emergency room, and luckily I didn’t have to wait too long for a young male doctor to come in and remedy the situation, which was basically sticking his finger up my ass in order to break up and pull out the offending material a little at a time. But oh, the indignity…and the discomfort! I can’t believe that we can put a man on the moon, but the best we can come up with when it comes to a clogged pipe is manual dexterity.

Before he took the plunge, I asked in astonishment if there was any other way, if there was any magic potion they could shoot up there to break things up, but he said somewhat curtly, “Nope. I just have to get in there, and it’s nasty.”

He then told me to take down my pants and roll over, as a nurse stood by, pan in hand, ready for the rocks. Before I knew it, he’d put on two pairs of rubber gloves, greased up, then plunged in with such ferocity that I grabbed onto the side of the bed for dear life, fearing that my poor anus was being ripped from its moorings.

He wasn’t in there for even a minute when the intercom clicked in, saying he had a phone call. “Excuse me,“ he said, removing the gloves, “but I have to get this.” “What?” I whimpered, shocked that any phone call could be more important than stopping in the middle of a procedure such as this. As one might imagine, a patient in this position wants the entire matter over as quickly as possible, and it felt like an hour for him to return as my poor butt was throbbing, even though it was probably just a few minutes.

It gave me just enough time to ponder how awful it was going to feel all over again when he returned, and my imagination didn’t disappoint. He was just as vigorous the second time around, to which I grunted, “How long is this going to take?” “Oh, a few more minutes,” he said, which inspired such fear in me that I gave a mighty push, and well, the matter resolved itself from then on in just a few seconds to the surprise of both him and the nurse. They both acted like a baby was coming as they rushed to get the pan underneath me, realizing that nature was taking its course in a way I just couldn’t control.

And just like that it was all over, and before I knew it, I was back in my apartment, back in bed tending to my severe case of bronchitis and fever, which felt like kids’ play compared to what I’d just been through.

Since then, I’ve been trying to reduce my morphine even more, and I’ve been staying away from the supplements for now, but frankly, I’m miserable. The pain in my face is too fierce right now to reduce the morphine any more, and I was in tears most of the afternoon, wondering how in god’s name my life has come to this—that I’m on so much pain medication that I actually needed an emergency room doctor this week to pull a brick out of my butt with his bare, if gloved, hands.

The poor guy didn’t even stick around for me to thank him. I did thank the nurse though, who was left with the grunt work, ‘natch, of throwing out my poop. I told her I was sorry that I’d come in with such an unpleasant task, but she couldn’t have been nicer, shrugging off the whole ordeal with, “Honey, this is what we’re here for. We’re here to help, and it’s not just you…this happens to people all the time.”

And with that I walked out a little easier than I walked in, if a little bowlegged.



****************************

Life In The Penumbra

Today is Sunday, and I woke up feeling somewhat better. I took some Xanax yesterday, which scares me as benzodiazapenes have the potential of permanently scarring the brain, but drugs in the Valium family are known for their pain-relieving properties for facial pain. I don't have the same addiction issues with Xanax as I do with opiates--for some odd reason, addiction to that drug has never set in. I use it sparingly as I'm so leery of it, but what relief it can bring, even a small dose.

I tend to flog myself when I resort to any type of pain meds, thinking that I should be stronger in character to overcome things through mental means, but that's just as nuts as taking too much of something. The cliche "happy medium" comes to mind here--a concept I should perhaps consider more, if that's even possible for an addict.

I got up around nine, and after making my morning coffee, I popped on the TV, and there was that History Channel show again about the plague in Europe in the 1350s. As it has before, this show gives me great comfort, because it's a story about human suffering on an unimaginable scale--a story that was recorded with the written word (as opposed to similar human die-offs like the peoples of Central America who succumbed to European diseases in the 1500s).

It reinforced the notion that the scale of human suffering can vary wildly. Some go through life with the ordinary trials and tribulations of the human condition, while others suffer in such grotesque ways that we avert our eyes, as such unfairness is unthinkable.

Perhaps this is the reason for the current popularity of the philosophical/spiritual concept of the Law of Attraction, which seems to be taking root everywhere. While this idea has been around for ages, current books like "The Secret" have become red-hot bestsellers as they offer people a greater sense of control over what happens to them if they can just "vibrate" and visualize differently in their thoughts and actions. They have faith that if they expect more of life, they will get it, and surely there is some wisdom in this.

When one stops and thinks about it, it really should come as no surprise that this "law" contains such truth, as the evidence for it is all around us. We all know someone who had an ideal upbringing and marches into their adulthood having a natural love of themselves and others. They often find love and success early in life, and clearly it's because they're unencumbered by the baggage that plagues the person who suffered horrendous abuse in childhood, be it emotional, physical or sexual.

When survivors of these diabolical ravages begin to come of age, their view of the world and of themselves is grossly distorted, and much of their energies, if not all of it at times, is spent trying to repair the damage that never should have occurred in the first place. Yet at the same time, they must also embark on developing the survival skills that any human needs so that take can care of themselves and their families (provided they have the emotional stability to even have a family), and to lead an independent life.

For these folks (myself being one), the Law of Attraction provides a new hope and a clear map towards a better existence, whereby we can consciously tap into the power of expectation, which seems to come so easily to the products of happy childhoods.

Yet there is also a grave danger in thinking this law so absolute, for when bad things happen to good people, we can easily slip into the "blame the victim" mentality. If a child is kidnapped and killed, parents can wonder where their thinking went wrong that allowed this to happen. If we are felled by a disease that causes lifelong crippling, we can blame ourselves that we didn't visualize hard enough to prevent this terrible event.

I suppose my point is that there are limits to everything, and that there are no absolute truths in life, for if there were, we would indeed have complete control over everything that happens to both us and the ones we love just by creating a pretty picture in our heads.

A few years ago, I had a lovely friendship with a woman, Elle, who actually started out as a fan of my music. We had a long discussion over dinner one evening about my work and about art in general, and I attempted to explain what art was for me, and that I knew it when I created it.

I said that the click happened when my song was somehow able to encompass a broader statement about life than what was there on the surface. If it was a happy tune, there was also an aching sadness just below the surface, and if it was a sad song, there was a foundation of hope somewhere deep inside it.

Elle (who has a massive IQ) explained it much better. She said that art and music like this exists in the "penumbra" (which Webster's defines as "a space of partial illumination between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light") and that this is the area in which the Supreme Court grapples with its decisions in order to find truth. It's never precisely in one location, but rather in the grey area between light and shadow.

I never forgot her explanation, as I'd discovered this heady concept all on my own in my dogged attempts to write something so seemingly simple as a pop song. It's wonderful when humans from such varied backgrounds can come to such similar conclusions via completely different routes.

I don't see Elle as much these days, as she's suffering greatly herself, only her trial is full-blown multiple sclerosis, and she's attempting, quite valiantly, to find her own comfortable place in the penumbra.

For both of us, the shadows in our lives are quite dark indeed. But I like to believe that it's in such a state of darkness that any light is best seen, provided we choose to open our eyes.

In a world where there seems to be no absolute truths right now, I suppose that's one truth I can count on.

Hope springs eternal.


******************************