...cauterizing the wound...

 The irony is not lost on me that I went into January with a focus on healing...as first my youngest~then my eldest~and now myself (and my partner) all succumbed to the viral Winter '23 virus surge.  Presently, I'm curled up in the recliner, blankets wound about me in perplexing tangles, with a veritable pharmacy on hand beside me.  I'm medicated, and then some, and slightly hazy around the edges.

Yesterday was, among other things, the perfect counterpoint to my word for the year.  It was a bitter reminder of how far I'd allowed myself to fall.  And a lesson, by deed/not word, of what not to do, for my children.  In fact, later in the evening I very intentionally said to my eldest " Don't EVER let one bad thing that happens to you jostle you so off-course that you wind up here." 

Talk about shame...and self-loathing...and...
...terror.

And the self-feeding cycle of all those emotions as I struggled to come to terms with what I already knew...

My focus this year was going to be on healing.

On my terms.

At my pace

In safe, gentle ways.

Was.

But here and now...my hand was being forced without time to process.  I was...sick.

My youngest came down with cold symptoms and eye-discharge first.  Then my eldest spiked a fever, chills, congestion...and pinkeye.  A week later, I woke up with a burning throat and a steadily rising temperature.  Excruciating throat pain with every breath...post-nasal drip...pressure in the sinuses...etc..
But I "soldiered" on...tending to my children and my partner, easing their discomfort, convinced I could power through mine. 

Just pop the Aleve and keep the citrus coming.  I can fight this off myself.

Mind you...we all just got over RSV which paid a visit in November and over-stayed its welcome.  I'm nursing, still, and I'm quite convinced that my body is putting more effort into making milk then it is into healing itself. 

But I digress...

I was sick.  I needed real medicine...not just fever-reducers and clear liquids.

But the very idea of stepping through the doors of a medical office made me want to cry.

I'm not a crier.  I'm a blink it back...swallow it...never let them see you hurt...

Perhaps learning how to cry is part of healing?

So, something happened.  Once. One bad thing.  Horrific, really. 

You don't need to know, and I don't need to write it out.  Not here. Not now.

It was a bad thing.

One bad thing that I have, in my post-traumatic avoidance, allowed to fester and grow into an all-encompassing terror that stops me in my tracks.  It defies reason and logic, and the pursuit of health. 

One bad thing happened.  To me.

And I have spent all these years, trying to protect myself the only way I knew how...but in reality, just continuing to be a victim.

Because I just stopped.

I have tried.  Please know that.  I have made the appointments, and from time to time, I have managed to force myself to go.  But eventually the fear overrides my earnest attempts, and the years go by.

This is trauma. And it has always been stronger than my will.

So I have gone years without a check-up...without dental interventions...without primary and continuing care.  Because I am weaker than my fears.

Yesterday, I was so sick...so weak...that my fear-response weakened, too.

I made it in the door.  I made it to the counter.  I asked if there was someone on-call for sick visits.

And I was turned away.

Because, you see, my fear...my fear had kept me out of that office for more than three years...the outside window of time that my practitioner has for considering someone an established patient.

There I was.  Inner monologue firing off warning bells as I held myself rigid so as not shake.  Having fought a battle just to cross that doorstep.  And...no...   No, I couldn't be seen.  No, I couldn't get help.  No.

I said "thank you" and walked out.  I got to the car and collapsed inside and broke into a million little pieces of self-loathing and shame.  This.  This was what I had done to myself.  Here and now, unable to get the medical help I needed because I hadn't been braver...sooner.  Why was I so weak...so pitiful?  Oh, how I hated myself then.

(In hindsight, with a cocktail of pharmaceuticals in me as I type this...it's the man that I hate...the one who did the thing...the one who made a victim of me.  But yesterday, I could only see my own shame.)

Home again.  In defeat. In shame.  Sick.  Exhausted from illness and from the fight to get past the fear.  Feverish and dizzy and weak after weeks of caring for everyone else while ignoring myself.

Aiming for stoic on the outside, but hysterical beyond the point of return on the inside.

Thankfully, my youngest was still napping.  My eldest helped me into the house...settling me down and wrapping me up like a burrito...tending to me as I've tended to him.  I hid my face as I cautioned him to not let fear ever disrupt him.  I hid as hot tears spilled out of my burning eyes.

I hid my shame. My fear.  My weakness.

I was an embarrassment.  A broken, useless thing not fit to be his parent.

And he tended to me.  Cool water and warm blankets and soft hands on my forehead.  Lights out and silence and whispered reassurances.

(He's a miracle, this one.)

Some time later, my partner returned, having found an urgent care that would accept my insurance. (Most don't, and we don't have the financial security blanket to cover medical emergencies.)

Back into the car...inner dialogue of tough-love resumed...and off we went.

I made it in the door...over that threshold.  I filled out the tablet-intake screen.

Followed the texted prompts and typed in the necessary fields.

Sat in the chair, waiting, repeating over and over...stand up, walk in, don't cry.

Finally, my name was called.

I stood up.

Walked in.

Gasped in a breath of face mask and cold, sterile hallway as my temperature was taken, and found myself in triage...counting the black dots on the wall in front of me as some part of my brain answered the assistant's questions.

Temperature, again.

Step on the scale. Ouch...my brain registering a number higher than I used to be.

Sitting down...blood pressure cuff.  I froze in panic as it tightened...feeling invisible fingers clenching my arm.  Black dots. One...two...twenty-seven...  Done.

"Follow me."

Back in the hallways with bright lights buzzing and astringent smell.

Then the gaping silence of a small room.  My adrenaline firing at every crinkle of the paper beneath me.  My breathing suddenly so loud that I didn't hear the footsteps or knock or door opening.

"I'm Doctor ____.  What brings you in here today?"

Rote answers.  Rehearsed in my head in advance.  Hands clenched around each other to no one could see the claw marks my fingers were leaving.  Pain to override freezing panic.

Checking me over.  Checking my chart.

Lights.  Swabs.

Gagging and tearing up.

Apologizing, over and over, and asking for a moment.

The doctor...older...stepping back, confused but waiting for me to gather hold of myself.

A second try at swabbing my throat.  I stayed rigid this time and didn't break.

He said "good job" and I felt a flush of...embarrassment...pride...something...

The assistant vanished to run tests while the doctor checked my ears and nose and throat again...palpating glands sore to the touch.  Asking again about my children and their symptoms.

He stepped out and I yanked my mask down, gasping for unhindered air.

Then chastised myself for that weakness and hoisted it back up.

The door opened again.  Rapid results all negative.

Caution to quarantine until the next set.

Diagnoses as he checked my sinuses again.  Directions.  Pressing in on those swollen glands and cautioning me to take everything as directed.  A moment's pause as he stopped to look me directly in the eye.  Then a hand-pat of reassurance..."It's all in my notes.  You don't have to remember it all."

Still nursing, so only one kind of antibiotic allowed and only at a lower dose...so...

Antibiotics.  Eye drops. Rinses.  Fever reducers.  OTCs for the post-nasal drip and cough and sore throat.  Homeopathy for increased comfort and symptom reduction.

"I'll put it all in my notes."

Referrals to specialists in case I need them.

Another hand pat.  "I don't expect you to need them."

Then out the door to discharge.

Features arranged and held on pause....blank...waiting for paperwork.

Back to the car.

Safe.

Collapse.

I did it.

I did that.

I made it through.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm sick.  Medicated.  Fuzzy and feverish.

I liken it...yesterday...to cauterizing the wound.  A painful, but necessary sealing.  Burning to stop the ongoing bleeding...just long enough to store up energy for the next step.

(In my limited, layman's understanding of that process.)

A beginning to healing.

There will be more.

They may hurt more...or less.

But now I know what it feels like.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This year I chose heal as my word.

Apparently, it chose me back...and upped the stakes...forcing my hand, maybe before I thought I was ready...but in its own perfect time.

Yesterday I was full of shame.  Full of self-loathing.

Today, I'm full of meds and a little bit of pride.

Just enough of each to write it out of me.

Just enough to take note of the triumph.