Plan C – Taking the Pills

I am grateful for the couple of pain-free days. Truly, I am. It was a great reprieve, I felt alive again. I wanted to run a mile, or dance in the rain, shout from the rooftops. When you have spent every moment in pain for years, even one day with no pain is worth celebrating – and I had three. I was hesitant to declare victory, although everything inside of me wanted to. I have been on this roller coaster long enough to know that just when I think it is coming to an end, it will free-fall sixty feet and enter a series of loopty-loops. But I wanted to believe, to have faith.

I felt a twinge of pain in my lower abdomen on Tuesday, but I tried to pretend that it wasn’t there. I woke up Wednesday morning in full-blown pain. Level 7. That’s where I land most of the time. Occasionally, I go up to an 8, or as low as a 6, but 7 has always been my lucky number. When I came home from work on Wednesday night, I peeled back the band-aid covering the open wound on my left breast, and light green fluid began pouring out – of three holes. If you’re new to my blog, I have been dealing with mastitis for two and a half years. Fourteen months ago I had surgery to remove an abscess (and several ducts), and the surgical wound refuses to close. Beneath that wound, there is a pocket of fluid that formed, and has now broke through the skin, creating two more holes. After draining all of the fluid I could, I noticed that the skin around the wounds was turning red – and that isn’t a good sign. I threw my hands in the air (literally), and shouted – or grunted, I’m not sure how it came out. What I wanted to do was stomp my feet and scream. I whispered, “I can’t do this anymore,” as though I had a choice. I bandaged up my wound and went into the kitchen. I found the white pharmacy bag on the counter – in the same place I had left it over a month ago. I pulled out the brown pill bottle, tossed two Prednisone’s in my mouth, and chugged a glass of water. I am tired of fighting. I am just tired.

Last night, I woke up at 3:25 am. Level 9. I tried laying on my back, then my other side, then I got up and sat on the couch. I paced the hall. I sat in the recliner. There was no comfort, no relief, no matter what I did. I laid there, in the darkness, and again I whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.” I whimpered. I cried. Then, I got up, took 1000 mg of acetaminophen, turned on a heating pad, and curled up with a book. I fell asleep about an hour later.

Today, the tears just flowed. I sat down to work, and they came. I got in the car, and they came. I talked to my husband on the phone, and they came. Even now, as I am writing, they are pooling in the corners of my eyes. I am tired, battle-weary. I know that in eight hours, my children are going to be getting dressed and preparing for an amazing day at a local theme park with some of our best friends. I am going to be packing lunches, and sunblock, and making sure that I wear comfortable shoes for the long day ahead. And I know that I am going to have to take Tramadol to make it through the day. I am going to put on my best smile, ignore the pain, suppress the tears, and be the mom that they deserve. So tonight, I am going to sit here awhile longer, and allow the darkness that surrounds me to cover my sorrow. Tonight, I will grieve.