Fear.

Fear that I will end up back in the hospital.

Fear and OCD are a bad combination.  It’s bad enough to have a fearful thought in your head, but with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder you just can’t forget it.

I was woken by pain on Monday morning at 6am.  I felt like I was being stabbed in my left lower back and side.  An all too familiar pain.  The pain of a kidney infection.  AGAIN.  I’ve had far too many kidney infections the last few years.  Several of them have resulted in extended hospitalizations of a month or longer.  So to feel this familiar pain filled me with dread.

That is how the fear started.

I called my doctor as soon as the office opened.  He opted to put me right on antibiotics over the phone.  The first day was truly miserable.  I was in so much pain and my breakthrough pain meds were barely taking the edge off.  Yesterday I seemed to be feeling a tiny bit better.  But today I spiked a fever.

Not good.

Now the fear was escalating.  This infection was not heading in the right direction.  Instead it was following the well worn path that leads to the hospital.

I called my doctor who had me go get a urinalysis done to see where the infection is at.  I’ll get the result tomorrow.  The culture won’t be back though for a few days.

Now I wait and try not to let the fear take over.  But my thoughts are wanting to spiral out of control.

Kidney infection leads to hospital.

Hospital leads to latex exposure.

Latex exposure leads to anaphalaxsis.

Anaphalaxsis leads to another stay in the ICU.

Not fun.

Not fun at all.

Mental illness can sure make it more difficult to deal with a chronic illness.  But I’m trying to calm my thoughts.  Trying to channel my OCD into other happier obsessions.  But really I just want to cry because, though I try, sometimes I just can’t put a happy spin on life with a chronic illness.  Sometimes it’s not inspiring or uplifting.  Sometimes there’s no bigger picture.  Sometimes there’s no underlying lesson to be learned.  Sometimes it just sucks.

Sometimes I’m not a novel patient.  Sometimes I’m just a scared girl who doesn’t want to end up back in the hospital for the umpteenth time.

Before the wheelchair and the Prednisone, I could hide my illness in plain sight.  This is me right after a hospitalization.

Before I was in a wheelchair and now a walker, my illness was pretty invisible.  Though there are many downsides to invisible illness, one thing I did appreciate was that it gave me a choice of how much I wanted to share if anything about my illness.  If I wanted, I could mostly hide my symptoms, and no one had to know.  But my wheelchair became a physical sign of my illness and suddenly everyone, everywhere I went, instantly knew something was wrong.  And the big question that lingered in the air was “WHAT?”

I have always been a very open person.  Though like everyone I want to be accepted, I really don’t fear rejection.  Or at least I’d rather be rejected up front by someone I just met than a close friend far down the line.  So my policy about my illness has always been to share as much as the person I’m talking to in curious to know.  And the interesting thing has been that this has brought many blessings in itself.  When I share about my illness honestly and openly, I generally find that people respond with genuine empathy.

Sharing so openly has also given me the opportunity to help many people.  There are so many people out there going through similar experiences to me themselves or have a loved one or friend who is going through something similar.  I find that when I follow my intuition and share I find I’m speaking to someone who can benefit from what I have to say.

People are usually dying to ask me why I’m in a wheelchair or using a walker, but are afraid of being rude.  So I’ll steer the conversation that direction and put them out of their misery.  In this fashion, I often find myself sharing about my various illnesses with people I just met.  Sometimes I share the story of my physical illness and sometimes I share my struggle with mental illness.

Sometimes sharing doesn’t go very well.  Though most people are supportive and understanding, there will always be the ones who are judgmental or want to tell me what to do.  Either way I never regret sharing about my illnesses.

I find it’s important though that when I talk about myself, my illnesses aren’t the only thing I share about.  I am not my illness, and if I can communicate one thing that sticks with the person I am talking to I hope it is that people like me with chronic illness are so much more than the sum of their diagnoses.  I am also a women with hopes and dreams, talents and aspirations, fears and weaknesses.  I am human just like everyone else.  I am a graphic designer and a game designer and a novelist and a blogger and a scrapbooker.

I hope I never lose my desire to share fully and genuinely, and that I never forget to share the most important thing of all – what makes me who I am.

Tonight I wheelchair danced.

But that’s not where this story starts.

Once upon a time, I was afraid of dancing.  In fact, for most of my life I was afraid of dancing.  I never was super coordinated and I certainly lacked natural rhythm.  I was convinced I couldn’t dance and that I looked stupid trying.

Later, when I was old enough to have a few drinks first, I could get up the courage to dance a bit.  And when over a year ago now I ended up in a wheelchair, dancing seemed to be out of the cards forever.

But the world works in mysterious ways.  And someone named Jane McGonigal came into my life and with her eventually came her invention Top Secret Dance Off.  She and her games have changed my life for the better in innumerable ways and she has truly been a blessing to me, so when I heard about Top Secret Dance Off or TSDO I knew I had to be a part of it.

However, the way you participated in TSDO was by donning a disguise and submitting your video of you dancing to one of the dance challenges.  But I was in a wheelchair.  I could barely dance before.  How could I now?  But I am not so easily dissuaded from something I am determined to do.  So timid at first I made my first and then second video featuring Finger Dancing!

But then I began to joke to my fellow TSDO players that I would wow them with a wheelchair ballet.  Their response to the idea was so positive that I decided that it was something I had to do.  So I recruited my best friend and caregiver at the time Sarina (a real former ballerina) to help me.  The result wasn’t something either of us expected and the response to the video blew me away.  People laughed and cried and were moved and inspired.

For my wheelchair ballet video I won a mask.  The only condition of accepting the new mask as a reward was I had to make a video of me putting on the mask for the first time and dance whatever dance came out using a dance move known as “the solar eclipse” which I was told started in the elbows.  To this day I’m not sure what happened to me when I put on the mask, but my fear of dancing was conquered!  See for yourself…

So tonight I am unmasking myself to all of you because tonight while out to dinner and dancing with my dad and his girl friend I wheelchair danced without any mask at all and I didn’t have to think twice about it.  And although I didn’t see it myself, my dad said when I powered on my wheelchair to spin around on the dance floor, the people behind me watching applauded and cheered.

It occurs to me that the world is full of little miracles and hidden blessings like this.  Because without a wheelchair and Jane and TSDO I may have never challenged myself to get over my fear of dancing at all.

My dad and I REALLY don’t see eye to eye when it comes to my choices of treatment.  He has a very hard time accepting that as a 25 year old woman they are in fact my choices and not his.  My dad is a staunch believer in some pretty radical (and some not so radical) alternative medicine treatments.  He believes that all my doctors are wrong because they are from a western medicine perspective.  He doesn’t even believe in my diagnosis.  So he sees my choice to follow conventional treatments in effect killing myself.  His words not mine.

This makes it VERY difficult to have a relationship with him since right now my health is such a big part of my life.  And he won’t agree to disagree.  I feel at such a loss at what to do.  I don’t want to cut him out of my life, but I don’t need his constant negativity about my choices.  I’m the one who is sick.  I shouldn’t have to take care of him and his anxieties as well.  But that’s basically been my role in my family my entire life.

As much as I wish my dad will change, I don’t believe he ever will.  I don’t know what that will mean for our relationship going forward, but it makes me sad that my illness is driving another wedge between a person I love and myself.  It happened with so many friends who just didn’t want to or couldn’t or didn’t know how to deal with someone their age being chronically ill.

People have such strong and personal reactions to someone else’s chronic illness that I think they easily forget what that person is going through.  My dad is afraid of some horrible side effect occurring from a medication I’m on, but he never acknowledges MY fears.  He tells me how he is sooo worried about me every day, but what am I supposed to DO with that?  Does he really expect me to be the one to comfort HIM?!

Just because I put on a brave face and do very best to be optimistic and make a life for myself despite my illness doesn’t mean I don’t have needs too.  It doesn’t make the intense lonliness and isolation or the fears for my future or the daily physical pain of my illness any less.

Buy my dad doesn’t see it this way.  So he continues to drive the wedge in deeper.  And it hurts.

Literally.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, but felt no pain.  Most of the skin on my face, my lips, my tongue are more or less numb.  The strange thing, I realize now, is that it’s been happening so gradually I hadn’t noticed until tonight.  Or maybe I didn’t want to notice.

I just went down on my dose of Prednisone.  Must have made the numbness severe enough for me to finally take notice of what wasn’t there.  Because this has happened before.  When I was last in the hospital the left side of my face was numb for over a month.  Prednisone finally made it go away.  Swelling in my brainstem my doctors suspect.

And now the Prednisone is being tapered and the numbness is back.  If only it would numb the pain from my arthritis or Autoimmune Pancreatitis.  Then maybe I could be on less pain medication.  Or numb the anxiety I feel about this returning symptom or my unknown prognosis.

But alas I am merely tactiley numb.  And that knowledge hurts so much I want to cry.

Tomorrow I’ll have to call my neurologist and rheumatologist and determine what to do.  I am waiting for my insurance to approve a new IV infusion treatment.  It’s been a month of waiting for that so far.  Hopefully I can just start that and avoid more Prednisone.  But if I have to go back on high doses of Prednisone in the meantime, I suppose I’ll just learn to deal.  I always learn to deal.

The most important thing through all of this is that I do not become numb.  That I don’t loose my spirit in the face of this illness.  But I have no fear that will ever happen.  I do not know if I believe that everything happens for a reason, but I do believe that I can make a reason out of everything that happens.  I have faith in my ability to do that.  And that is enough for me.