Category: Wellbeing

I try

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Hi, my name is John and I haven’t posted anything of substance in a year or more.

I have a good thing not going here, so why start now? This is a couch and you are my therapist – so be warned.

After a few false starts, we’re really moving. Cheryl starts a new job in Orlando on Friday, we’re moving much of our furniture after Christmas (to the guest wing of my sister and brother-in-law’s house), and the kids start at their new schools when they reopen after the holiday break. As of a week ago, I have no idea what I’m doing – other than staying behind until I can find a job in Orlando. I have some ideas about what I may be doing (hopefully a transferring within my department), but much feels uncertain and depression doesn’t help. I feel deep depression waiting around the corner like a would-be mugger, waiting to beat the shit out of me and steal everything I have. This may sound odd at first, but it feels like an ego trip gone VERY wrong. Mixed with uncertainty, it feels like the mental health equivalent of booze and narcotics.

Putting all of that aside for a moment, let me tell you I am extremely proud of Cheryl and I know I’m very lucky. Not only is she the love of my life, my partner in life, and my very best friend, but she put our family on her back and carried us through a tough seven years while dealing with a few of her own problems…

… and this is where I lose folks who’ve never dealt with severe depression: I’m trying to be supportive.

Trying? you may ask. You either ARE supportive, or you are NOT. There is no TRY.

Thank you, Yoda.

If you’ve been depressed, read anything about depression, or have a shred of common sense, you know (on some level) depression is an internal struggle. There’s a reason I referred to it as an ego trip of sorts. Depression turns your thoughts inward and self-destructive. At its worst, it can take self-absorption to dangerous lows. Self pity, helplessness, self loathing, despair… I could go on and on – but I won’t – for your sake.

My aim is not to make YOU depressed. I want you to understand. Short of that (which isn’t realistic anyway), I’d like you to know where I am when I say I’m trying. Every day takes some effort. Sometimes it feels harder to get out of bed when I’m depressed than when chemotherapy was trying to kill cancer before it killed me. I constantly fight my mind’s (mostly) unconscious push to think the worst, overlook the positive, and focus on the negative. I struggle against a desire to isolate myself all day at work by seeking people out. I make my own signs of self worth by putting smiles on other people’s faces (or trying anyway). Then I come home and try to do at least as much for the ones who mean the most to me: my family. This still takes a toll – I’m often physically and emotionally exhausted. But it’s better than the alternative: the isolated, lonely, and hopeless downward spiral of profound depression.

So I’m trying to be supportive. I’m trying to see opportunity in change. I love Cheryl and I know I’m lucky we found each other, but I wish I didn’t have to try to be the kind of person I wish I was – that I know she deserves.

However, just wishing something were true rarely makes it so.

So I try.

Enter

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Today was the first morning at the new office.

My office is cool. It’s a little far from my peeps down the hall and around a corner, but a little walking will do me good.

The movers are behind but we had some wicked thunderstorms yesterday afternoon/evening, so I’m back at the home office this afternoon. I can’t help myself when there’s stuff to be done and my neck tells me my moving days are over, so it’s best if I remove myself from the temptation and work from home.

Speaking of working, I’d better do some so I’ll be quick.

I’m worried about the drive.

The commute to Clearwater was cake. It was mostly a straight shot down a limited access highway (not an Interstate Highway, but just like one)… the kind of drive where you pick a lane and cruise to your destination at a steady speed.

The commute to Largo is not cake. It’s only about fifty percent further but it takes three times longer. It’s the kind of stop and go driving that reminds me my neck isn’t right.

I didn’t think of it much leading up to the move but after driving back and forth this morning I can’t think of much else.

Conquering Gyro

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I’ve got a million Gyro jokes and puns this morning… just so you know.

I’m still suffering from the defeat to last night’s dinner at the hands of an under-dog Gyro. Strike that. I already don’t like the word association with dog and Gyro, considering the way I feel. And yet, this morning I woke up before my alarm and started my neck stretches, exercises, and early morning walk.

Funny thing about waking up before your alarm. Unless you turn it off early, which I never do because it’s a recurring, weekday alarm for work, it still tends to go off eventually.

After my neck stretches, exercises, and three quarters into my early morning walk, it occurred to me it hadn’t.

Battling the fatigue from two hours sleep and gutting out my normal routine after dinner last night, I realized I normally get up at five-fifteen – not four-fifteen.

My selective memory this morning recalls something about asking and receiving in the Bible. So… God? Could you do me a solid? How about calling my boss and explaining to her why I can’t come in today. I know, I know. The office is completing the transition to Office 365, and more specifically to Exchange/Outlook, thus away from Novel GroupWise. The Mac Guy needs to be there for Windows support. I know there’s a reorg meeting this morning I should probably go to.

The thing is, I’ve got this pillow my head needs to fall into, and I have last minutes plans to moan and groan today. Neither is compatible with reorg meetings.

Leaving my comfort zone?

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I’ve been sitting on this post for a couple weeks. Cheryl and I have discussed this at length, but I’ve waited to put this up until after her big day. I didn’t want her dealing with this, any more than she already would have been, when she was already going to be stressed talking to the folks at the home office in Tallahassee.

– – –

It’s easy to see life altering events after they’ve passed. Sometimes we think we can see them coming, but find that foresight isn’t a reliable predictor of a happiness. Such an event may loom in my near future. As if you couldn’t already guess.

Cheryl had a job interview today. It was out of town, in Tallahassee, FL.

How many of you think moving to a new city sounds exciting? There was a time when I did. What’s not to like? New opportunities. New places to see and explore. Expanding horizons a bit further than the daily commute. All of these sound good, so why does it seem I’m wired differently than folks who see these things with an optimist’s eye? I hate myself for being a killjoy.

Let’s start at home. This is home. With a couple interruptions, it has been since 1979. I’ve loved this place with equal measure hate, so it shouldn’t hold me as strong as it does. But home has the capacity to comfort you like no other place when life doesn’t treat you well. I can’t imagine slogging through leukemia, chronic pain and illness, my mother’s mental collapse and long hospitalization, a couple surgeries, and my ongoing struggles with depression – in these last six years – if they happened somewhere else.

So why would we be considering a move to Tallahassee? For those of you not up on your Florida geography, it’s about halfway across the state (lengthwise), yet is far enough to easily get you to another state most other places in this country (outside of Alaska, Texas, California, and Hawaii). Although Tallahassee leans progressive due to two universities and the state capital, it’s in a region (not always) affectionately known as Lower Alabama (the panhandle). Florida is unique in that you have to drive north to go “South,” with the rest of the state made up of first and second generation, midwestern or northeastern transplants.

The short answer: Cheryl works two jobs to cover my medical bills, private school for a child in the autism spectrum, and more private school for another child who we fear would suffer similar problems in our beleaguered public schools. Please note: we don’t blame the schools themselves. They’ve been under siege by a hostile, crazy-conservative state legislature hell bent on removing “public” from any discussion. She has an interview for a job which pays more money, where she wouldn’t have to work two jobs.

“Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can rent it for a while.” I don’t know who said that, if it was a serious comment, or where I heard it, but I think I understand it. I don’t want Cheryl to feel she has to work two jobs, and this position with the central office in her department could solve this problem. Working night shifts in hospital security has taken a physical and emotional toll, and I feel responsible. Hurting someone you love, however indirectly, is a terrible feeling. So go ahead and add one more thing to my list of suffering a couple paragraphs back: self-pitying anchor.

No matter what I say going forward, no matter how much unsympathetic whining I do, I feel there’s no real choice. I can’t…. I won’t be responsible for my wife’s suffering.

The Problem: I don’t want to move. By this I don’t mean I’d prefer not to move. The idea fills me with anxiety on so many levels I could sit distracted for hours, thinking of nothing but worry. Still, I also can’t be the reason for Cheryl’s misery… resentment… fill in the blank with the help of your trusty thesaurus.

Anxiety’s Root: Well, there’s the obvious answer: brain chemistry/wiring. I can feel o.k. for months, working my way through pressures at work and home with aplomb. It’s almost like I’m a normal person. Then there’s a trigger. There’s no telling what it might be. I could be something as trivial as leaving my phone at home. Then I’m in free-fall and everything feels insurmountable. It can last hours or months, but for years it stayed away… until six years ago.

A few causes are easier to understand. They share elements experienced by many folks first or second hand. For example, I feel marginally employable due to health problems and my attendance record over the last six years. As someone who’s had a hand in hiring for the last fifteen, I know it’s an important consideration. Whether there’s a good reason for absenteeism or not, employers like to have employees who are capable AND who will be there regularly to show off their abilities. I feel lucky to be somewhere NOW, where I’m valued despite my history of health problems. Despite what you may think about working for the government, there’s no guarantee of a job for me in my department just because my wife gets a promotion and/or transfers. I have to be acceptable in the eyes of management where I’d be transferring. Over the last six years, I’m the potential candidate who’s used all of his own leave, used chunks of leave donated by others, and is on his third year under the protection of the Family Medical Leave Act. Tempting, aren’t I?

Plus I really like my job, right where I am. I’ve put the better part of twenty years towards learning most of the nuances of my job, and the somewhat unique version of it which exists in my office. To some this would mark the time to move on to other things. But to me, it creates another opportunity: to help not only our clients but my coworkers. People outside my team (sometimes calling long distance) trust me with an answer, and a sincere thank you often means more to me than money. Folks often complain recognition in government (at least in Florida) rarely involves financial reward, but I’m not one of those people.

Despite more recent health problems, I’ve put many years earning this respect, my friends, and a good reputation. I fear starting over someplace else and losing it all – the things I’ve come to like most about my job. I fear it will be many times harder the second time around – when the 1995 model Me is just words in a file, and the 2013 model is broken.

The circle is complete. None of this changes Cheryl’s problems. I haven’t lived them so I won’t do them the disservice of explaining them poorly, but I understand the toll they’ve taken all too well. The lack of time off, never stopping, and carrying more than her share is wearing her down. I read this post and my guilt leaves the linear track, exploding with exponents. I’m not just an anchor, resisting with equal and opposite force. Most of you remember high school physics, right? I fear I’m an anchor that can’t/won’t see past it’s own fear and pulls back harder.

I don’t think I’m deluding myself when I say I try. The privacy train left the station on this blog years ago, so it’s odd I can’t bring myself to name the ways now. Hell, what’s a little social stigma after this post? I’ll just say I’ve spoken to many people, in many disciplines, at times spending lots of money, over many years, to get a a grip on some of my problems. That should be enough to spark a bit of your imagination, eh?

God help me (yes, I’ve spoken to him too), I don’t want to be a terrible person.

Maybe it’s better I didn’t know

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Who knows what kind of anxiety I could have built up if I’d known.

Until Friday I had an umbilical hernia. I preferred this name to the more common “belly-button hernia.” Until Friday night I thought the surgery to repair it would be nothing – no more harmful than its silly sounding common name.

I have a couple days under my belt now, and holy shit on a popsicle stick, it wasn’t nothing! It felt like my poor navel coughed up a large fruit. There was a constant, off the charts sharp pain in my gut, and it wasn’t in the same galaxy as the feeling that followed any movement. It took my breath away. In fact, the rise and fall of my stomach during the act of breathing was enough. (It’s better now but I’ll get to that.)

Cheryl and I developed a close relationship with the doctor-on-call over the last few days. There’s been a few cases of miscommunication, a few conversations with health insurance reps, a couple run-ins with a pharmacist who thinks I’m a doctor shopping drug addict, and a fall back to meds I had left over from neck surgery. In fact, I’d like to go to the pharmacy and throw my half-full bottle of oxycodone at the judgmental prick. I won’t because I’d like to keep my criminal record clean. I can’t because it’s the only thing I have that’ll touch the pain. It would be funny if I didn’t feel angry, frustrated, ashamed, stigmatized and depressed. The script the pharmacy wouldn’t fill was less potent than the oxycodone I had left over from neck surgery. In fact, I only had the stuff because I’d long ago asked my first surgeon (from the neck surgery in February) for a less potent script so I could try to start weening off the pain meds altogether.

Before you say anything, I recognize there are lots of folks who shop for doctors to get scripts for medication they don’t really need. I get it. We live in a world where people do bad things. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to treated like a criminal until I can prove otherwise. Hell, Cheryl criticizes me because I don’t sell my discomfort, usually resulting in under-treatment of symptoms. The only reason I had this lovely chat with the folks at CVS is because I turned down a script after the surgery, and Cheryl called my (hernia) surgeon after I spent a night and half the next day curled in a whimpering ball. (I was thinking the discomfort would be nothing compared to my last surgery, and the weened down meds I’d been taking for my neck would be plenty. Yes, I’m THAT stupid.)

Now it’s late, I’m tired, and even in my current medicated state/fog, sitting here really hurts. I’ve got one thing left I want to say.

If you’re offended by foul language stop reading now and turn away.

Fuck you, CVS.

Cut 2 C Spine

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A word of warning: I’m going to do a fair bit of whining to start, but I promise it will get better.

I’m done.

Cheryl thinks I should have come to this conclusion a year ago. That’s how long the pain in my neck, shoulder, arm, and head have beat me up and down. For now I’ve given up on physical therapy, massages, chiropractors, pain management specialists, and a few others lost in the fog of drugs and pain. I’m still stretching though, trying in vain to keep some of the surrounding muscles loose.

I said yes to surgery.

Some folks fear the knife, but not me – not now. I’ve given a year to every other option I could think of not called acupuncture. All of those little pins/needles/whatchamacallits freak me out, man. I don’t look forward to six weeks in a cervical collar, stronger pain meds, or the rehab to be named later. My Doc wrote up the docs for work saying I’ll be out ten weeks, which seems like a freakin’ long time. But I don’t want to repeat last year. I’m pretty sure I could, but I won’t. I’m saying no to 2012: no to the pain, depression, and helplessness. I’m saying no to the feeling of isolation that follows this unholy trinity of despair.

I don’t want to know my heart rate from the hammer blows felt inside my head. I want to be free of the vise that sometimes squeezes my upper body, as muscle spasms fire up and down from my neck. I’d like to take a deep breath without fear it will feel like I’m tearing muscle from bone. I don’t want to stay behind while my family experiences life.

Day after day I struggle to put on a good face, wanting to be a relief to the tensions of an office in disarray. I come home physically and emotionally exhausted, collapsing on the first appealing/horizontal surface. Sometimes it’s the floor. I often lie in odd positions seeking relief that doesn’t come, not moving for fear of making it worse. I sleep little overall, but in lots of short, non-satisfactory bursts.

But today it feels good to be moving forward. There’s a lot to be said for doing something, even when it involves waiting. Effort gives purpose and can fuel hope.

Does it sound odd hearing someone say they’re looking forward to surgery? I can’t wait to get me in there and fuse me some vertebrae! I suppose you could interpret it as desperation, but I don’t feel desperate. Some would say it goes against my nature, but I’m optimistic. I don’t expect a miracle cure. I don’t even expect to be fully cured. I accept the chance it won’t cure me at all. I’m hopeful most of it will go away – not counting the sleep.

Surgery is just the next arrow in the quill. The aim may or may not be true this time, but I’m not afraid to try. Well, not much anyway.

It’s passed time to rejoin life, and the living.

Forgive me

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Forgive me Father for I am considering sin.

My neck isn’t any better than it was almost a year ago. While I haven’t given up hope my issues above the shoulders will improve one day, it’s time to stop waiting. It’s time to start doing. It’s time I started exercising again.

We interrupt this post for a moment of rationalization.

It’s not that I haven’t been trying. Here’s just a couple inspiring examples of damn near heroic perseverance: I’ve tried increasingly short walks, scaling down every time it started to hurt. I tried easy skating, thinking gentle gliding would be less traumatic than the up/down pounding of walking. My reward? Suffering more pain for days afterward.

We return to the post, reality in progress.

My Doc says walking isn’t the best choice, due to the range of stressors placed on the neck (side to side, up and down, etc). When I mentioned skating she just shook her head with dismay. She must think I fall a lot, constantly pushing my limits. I don’t know what gives her that idea.

She recommended bicycling – or more precisely: riding an exercise bike. If you’re doing it right (is there any doubt I do it right?), there’s little upper-body movement at the lower effort levels.

The Problem(s): I have a road racing bike. I love my road racing bike. I may never be able to ride my road racing bike again. The bent-over, aerodynamic riding position puts a strain on my neck. Stupid pride prevents me from selling it for a heavy, upright clunker. Stupid pride prevents me from riding a heavy, upright clunker.

The less rational problem(s):
Yes, it can get worse.
A stationary bike represents all that is evil in this world. Bicycling is an adventure, more intimate than a car but taking you further than your feet. A stationary bike is a terrible tease of the adventures in life not taken. It’s like an indoor porch or a computer without the Mac OS. They’re useless, but rendered so intentionally – adding an absurd quality to each.

The Problem (condensed): me.

That said, I’m considering the unthinkable: defiling my beautiful bike by rotating the bars up 180 degrees, bullhorn style. The 1970s will be calling, asking for their bike back. Worse, I’m considering riding it indoors (on my trainer) wearing a cervical collar.

To recap:
Neck still hurts.
Determined to exercise.
Stationary bikes evil.
Too much misplaced pride.
Sleek bike defiled.
Riding indoors anyway, looking like a commercial for an injury attorney.

I’m nowhere near a thousand words but there’s NO chance you’re getting a picture, so this will have to do.

Death of a Civic

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It came too soon. I only had my little Civic for eight years. I’d planned to grow old with the little fella. My little five speed manual, two door coupe, was small enough to get pretty good gas milage and be fun to drive.

There’s a responsiveness to a car with a manual transmission, a link between man and machine, that you don’t get in an automatic. They have no soul.

It made replacing my old Civic all the more painful. To save money we got a leftover/clearance 2012 Civic with, you guessed it, an automatic.

Preying on my weakness, the sharks smelled blood in the water and offered me a manual 2012 Accord Coupe for “about the same price.”

Anytime a car salesperson says that magical, almost too good to be true phrase, put a padlock on your wallet.

In this case, the mathematical formula for “about” is 3x / 2 (where x equals the price of the first car).

We got the automatic Civic.

As I was getting into the new car, my old car in front of me, off to the left. Stripped of its plates and my stuff (including my Democrats! sticker propped up in the back window), it looked abandoned – sad.

“Are you going to miss it?” The salesperson asked me, as I took a long last look.

“I already do,” I replied.

Freak out

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I’ve started this post once or twice a week for months. I get out a sentence or two and stop – too tired, too fried, or too apathetic to continue. I’ve been MIA most of this year, clicking the occasional “like” the few times I venture out into social media. Reasons and excuses abound, but there’s no biggie I can point to and say, “that’s the one you can blame.”

Well, that’s what I tell myself, choosing to deny it as if acknowledgment will make it real: depression. Denial is easy with the apparent presence of cause. In addition to a handful of issues, I’m fighting a losing battle with disks going bad up and down my neck. It’s been bugging me (off and on) for the better part of twenty years, but early this year the pain escalated to a full time problem. I don’t have the energy to go through the rest of the laundry list tonight.

Me and depression go way back. It’s half-brother anxiety hangs around too. More often than not they seem to come without an obvious cause, so it was easy to dismiss my dark moods as a personal failing: an inability to shake self-pity.

Inspired by a friend, I’d made a little more progress on this post than usual this week, but the kicker was a letter I received in the mail Friday.

You may have heard about a New England company (the New England Compounding Center) responsible for a nationwide outbreak of fungal meningitis, involving a tainted batch of steroids injected near the spine to treat back pain. The letter I received told me the series of injections I received in my neck earlier this year contained a steroid manufactured by this company. The upside is there have been no confirmed cases of meningitis linked to the steroid my doctor used, but it has been recalled and physicians have been instructed by the Department of Health to notify patients.

Here’s a quote from the letter: “All of us at xxx xxxx xxxxx understand that his information is alarming and frightening. Please do not hesitate to call us about this matter.” I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I have their permission to be alarmed and frightened.

The letter provides phone numbers and web site addresses for the FDA Division of Drug Information and the Centers for Disease Control. You know what that says to my anxiety prone mind? “The CDC is expecting your call.” I don’t want to be someone the CDC is expecting to hear from.

And then there’s every hypochondriac’s dream: I’ve had half the symptoms I’m supposed to watch for since before the injections. Headache, stiff neck, nausea, and sensitivity to light… I’ve had them all with great frequency this year, either due to the pain in my neck or the migraines it’s triggered.

My goal for the next few days is to focus on the following words: “there have been no confirmed cases.” Surely there would have been one by now, right?

In the mean time, my spare thoughts are with those of you with your own problems, and anyone facing an encounter with Hurricane Sandy.

The disappearance of John

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It’s been a while, eh?

In terms of writing and this blog, I’m in a funny place. I know a lot of people who are sick, injured, or feeling the pain of life beating them down. I say “a lot,” but it’s not… exactly. Everything’s relative, right? But whether we’re talking raw numbers or just percentages, I’d like to be a voice of reassurance. I’d like to be strong, spouting words of inspiration capable of changing lives.

Aim a bit high much?

When other folks are down I don’t want to hitch my car to the train. I don’t want to be a “me too” every time someone faces adversity. Mostly, I don’t think I deserve the same attention. I don’t think my problems rise to the same level. I don’t want to devalue other people’s suffering with my little problems. I don’t want to be the little boy who cried woe.

However, it occurs to me tonight – as I’m not sleeping – I’m doing neither. I’m not whining or inspiring. I start posts with a couple sentences and stop cold, my heart miles from my words. The Facebook app on my phone becomes an icon of guilt… the feed reader app a convenient victim of forgetfulness. Instead of talking or writing I’m disappearing. This can’t be healthy.

So, what gives? This year has been a series of little things piling up and weighing me down, creating a little snowball in my mind that not only gets bigger but makes use of every berm or rut on its way downhill to avoid all obstacles. These little things shouldn’t amount to much, even taken together.

A change at work.
The almost inevitable distance that grows between former coworkers.
A dislocated thumb.
Unflattering stories in the news involving my employer.
Cheryl taking a second job so necessaries don’t have to join discretionary spending.
A political climate that mistakes anything resembling compassion for a compromise of “American Values.”
A pesky problem with my neck.

This stuff is so mundane I’d be bored if I were you.

If Cheryl was awake she’d tell you the word pesky does not apply if I’m seeing a neurosurgeon later this morning, but I like the word. Pesky. Maybe it’s just the repressed Red Sox fan in me (Go Rays!).

Whatever the reason friends, please forgive my absences. All evidence to the contrary, you’re rarely far from my thoughts.