Mass

There is nothing worse (ok, there are) in the world than seeing blood coming out of your body where there shouldn't be. When this happened to me, I went right into the land of denial. Hmmm...that's weird....on with my day. 

But when it happened four more times that morning, I realized that it was beyond "weird" and something needed to be done...and by someone who might know what to do (rather than me-- or say...google.) So, I boldly attempted to get an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (and yes, I can hear all of the scoffs and laughter from my fellow military wives) who apparently left the clinic some months ago. And no, they haven't found a replacement for her yet. So...no doctor. Really? None? Can't you find somebody that will look at me? I'll even take my narcoleptic doctor from the last Duty Station (unless they still haven't located him...in that case, let him rest.) 

At any rate, no doc....so off to the ER I went. With my four year old in hand. Scared, in slight pain, but more feeling like, "what a pain in the arse this is!" How true these words will become in the next few hours.

I won't go into details. No one needs to hear about them...and I certainly don't want to relive them. Let's just say I was battered, bruised, poked, prodded and left out to dry. Literally. My forearms look like I am a heroin addict. I think I must have been the very first patient of the young nurse that tried to get blood from me. Seriously, bruises the size of index cards.

The good news: You're not pregnant! 
The bad news: You're going to need a colonoscopy! 
Wait...whuh? Where they stick a....and they put a ...and whuh? 

I am completely stunned. My husband is about to leave for a year and you are telling me there is a mass in my ass? Seriously? If it weren't so true, I'd be laughing right now (ok, I did laugh..mass in my ass...I still giggle every time) 

I know we all basically have the same body parts. We ALL will have to get colonoscopies one day (yes, you will too)...but I really didn't think it would be needed so soon. I'm still (somewhat) young. I haven't felt any differently in the last few days. (I'm still the same neurotic person I've always been) So what the heck is going on with my body? 

The ER doc says not to worry too much. I say, "whatever doc" and let my imagination take me where it wants. Which is not Disneyland. It's Cancerland. And Cancerland before Deploymentland is not a good combination. Why does my body have to overreact to every deployment? It's like a two year old having a tantrum: "I don't want you to go to war, so I am going break down!" or "If you go, I am going to have Trigeminal Neuralgia or, or, or CANCER! So there!" 
So, yes, I am heading in for the one thing that most people don't even like to think about, let alone read about (so apologies are in order if you haven't stopped reading by this point).
 
The saga continues...and this is what it is like getting sick, stressing out, and finding blood where there shouldn't be. Welcome to Gettingoldland.

More

So I took a big step yesterday. I started new meds for the not-so-new pain that has been penetrating my face in the last few months. I guess even the "new" meds aren't so new. I've had them before. Three years ago to be exact. When my normal stopped and my new normal became. 

The pharmacist I picked the meds up from probably thinks I am in need of therapy. I asked for a consult. They asked if I had taken the meds before. I said, in stilted breath, "Ummm..yes, but I would like to speak to someone about them anyway." So, the very harried pharmacist comes over and (very loudly) announces to the entire population of the pharmacy section of the store "OK, SO YOU'RE ON CARBAMAZEPINE." I reply, very quietly, "Well, yes. But I really don't remember how this effects me...I'm not sure I want to take this again." He booms: "WELL IT'S THE LOWEST DOSAGE, SO SIDE EFFECTS WILL BE MINIMAL....OK?! GREAT, HERE YOU GO." And walks away to attend to more important drugs...like Viagra.

I'm not sure what I wanted from this guy. Did I want sympathy? Kinda. Did I want him to look at me and say, "What in God's name is someone as young and healthy and gorgeous (my fantasy here people) as you doing on this drug? No, no, no...you do not need this drug. This drug you do not need." (I don't know why he suddenly turned into a Dr. Seuss character-- again, my fantasy.)

So I crept away from the pharmacy counter with tears in my eyes. Angry at my stupid Trigeminal nerve (the nerve of it! ), angry at the (innocent really) pharmacist, angry at the price of sun block (I passed a stand of them.) Just angry.

And later, when I got home I stared at the bottle, felt the pain in my face and decided: yup, gotta take one. So I did. And now I sit here in the morning, debating on whether I should take the second dose. What is wrong with me? Why don't I just take the stupid meds that might just help me? Is it because I can't admit that my condition is permanent? That it waxes and wanes and I will deal with this forever? Because I can't imagine what the side effects may be? (trust me, if you saw me the last go-round, you would realize these side effects aren't pretty)

The bottle sits there, waiting for me to make my decision. I sit here waiting for the pharmacist to call and apologize for not complimenting me enough. And my life waits around for me to pick up and get going again. OK, then. On with it.

Breaking

So we just told the kids that Daddy will be leaving. We keep waiting on his orders, but none have come and since we are now planning out summer, we felt this was indeed the right time to "drop the bomb." It wasn't pretty.

Child #1 immediately started crying hysterically; asking all kinds of questions that a seven year old would consider important stuff: Will he be here for my birthday? (no) Will he be here for Christmas? (no) Will Santa find him? (yes) How will I get through each day without Daddy coming home at 5:30? (To this, I answered, "I've been asking myself the same thing.") He cried and cried.

Child #2 took it a bit differently. She immediately started telling us about her friends whose Daddy's were gone and how she wants to join "Hearts Apart" -- a program for Military Kids whose Daddy's are deployed. This started Child #1 to cry harder because he's afraid he won't like "Hearts Apart"


Jump to Child #3, who sat there, watching this all unfold, quietly eating his hot dog  and carrots. 


Back to Child #2: She said she could feel her tears in her tummy and they were about to come up. I immediately thought, "Crap! Get a bucket!" but suddenly, she started wailing and ran to Daddy to sit in his lap.

Jump back to Child #3, who still hasn't said a word. He looks at both the other kids who are sitting in Daddy's lap sobbing. He looks at Child #2's dinner plate and helps himself to her food. Somehow, I don't think he "gets it" yet. But he will.

I know this because the last four deployments have taught me that delayed reactions from the youngest child are inevitable.  A week from now, a month from now, four months from now, Child #3 will suddenly break down and won't be able to sleep unless he is in bed with me. It won't be pretty. But, at least for now, he has a full belly and is comfortably numb with ignorant bliss.

This part of the deployment is hard. To say the least. Trying to get everything done before the big day of departure. Trying not to think, "This is the last time he will be here while we (fill in blank)." Telling the kids. 


I know the kids will be fine, eventually. I know I will handle it with my usual and frequent wild swings of emotions. Strong one day, a complete mess the next. Some people think that because the kids are older now, it will be easier. I do have to wonder if there is a little truth and a lot of hope to that statement. I mean, they know the dangers over there. They see the Military Graveyard near our house. They know that when a Military Funeral Procession drives by their school, they are to stop what they are doing and put their hand over their hearts. And I know those are the images they will be thinking about when we say goodbye to Daddy. 

On the other hand, Child #1 just came down to ask me, "Mommy, when Daddy is gone, can I get the newest Squinkie Skull toy?" Somehow, I think he will be just fine.
The only questions are: Will their Daddy be fine? Will I?

Limits

I am trying to get in as much TV as I can, before the impending departure, because, as all Army wives know, TV is not our friend after Hubby leaves. Oh, the brain-candy type shows are fine, but I'm talking about the news, the violent shows, the news, the military channel, the news, the news, the news. I'm all about watching the House Wives of Wherever, or the Jersey Shore making my peeps looks like idiots, but the news is off limits when he is gone. However, another genre of TV has en captured my viewing pleasure. And it is like a train wreck...I just can't take my eyes off of it, even though it is scaring the crap out of me every time I watch it. This show will definitely be on my "do not watch while he is gone" list.

What show you ask? "Mystery Diagnosis"...you know, on Oprah's new network.  I swear, I sit there and take notes. "OK, if my left arm suddenly starts going numb..." or "If I suddenly grow three feet and my hands are six times bigger than they were three months ago..." I will now know what I am suffering from, and what doctors to call. What really freaks me out about watching this is the fact that I could be one of those people! They could do a whole segment on me!! 

I can just picture it. A skinny, modelly-type, young girl, waiting in the ER four times, only to be sent home with more narcotics than should be allowed. "I just knew something was wrong with me, but no one would listen," the skinny model playing me would weep to the camera (I would not allow myself to be interviewed on camera of course, being a not-so modelly type person). The skinny model (me) would tell of her struggle of trying to find the one doctor who would solve her mysterious pains.  She would tell of her multiple trips to the dentist, oral-surgeons, ENTs, and finally, (right before the commercial break) she reveals that at one point, a nurse actually accused her of making up stories. (The model playing me will let a single tear roll down her face -- cut to the Tide commercial).

Cut back to "Mystery Diagnosis" and the viewer has to hear the whole thing over again, like somehow we've forgotten what we just watched three minutes ago (but since in this episode we're talking about me, that is just fine). Finally, they introduce the person who diagnosed my mystery: Nurse someone. Interesting that I can't remember her name. But, I think this is a defense mechanism since I am totally still pissed at her for diagnosing me, then handing over more narcotics (which don't work for a nerve condition- duh!) Oh, I will totally make the skinny-model-me say that! 


So I will watch the show that is completely nerve-wracking (no pun intended), making the watcher think they have every disease under the sun, or to some extent thinking, "OK, if I ever have that I will know who to call." Scary stuff. I will watch it until Hubby leaves, and then, no more! I can't watch anything that will make me even more paranoid while he is gone.  I can't exactly go hypochondriac when I am the only adult in the house. That will have to wait until he gets back. I mean, I can't exactly call my mom every time I think I have some wacko disease or if I think one of my kids is suffering from some rare condition.

Oh, maybe I'll take a peek or two during the deployment. And if I need to vent...I'll just call Oprah. After starring on her network, she and I (as the skinny model) will be best of friends. That I am sure of.

Crush

Lately as I have been driving the kids around I have been doing that desperate thing that desperate Mom's do: put on a show in the dvd player. As I listen to the shows, I realize that I have NO idea what any of the characters look like or how the scenes are set up. I am in the front seat, driving. So hour upon hour (broken into twenty minutes here, fifteen minutes there - gas station, grocery store, waiting for school pick up, you get the idea) I listen to the same movies or shows over and over again, picturing what those voices coming from behind me look like. But more importantly, and yes strangely, I have developed a crush on some of them. Ok, one of them. And that made me start thinking.

In preparation of our impending separation, I have been looking back, remembering how it was, how it is going to be. With each of the deployments, I found myself having crushes on certain men, mostly famous, some not-so-famous, but none that were "real". During the first deployment, Conan O'Brien and I had a little something (though, he had no idea). During the second, it was the guy from "Reading Rainbow" (Don't judge. He was smart, educated my kids, AND kept them preoccupied for hours at a time). The third deployment, hmmm. It may have been one of those guys from those make-over shows. But, as we all know, that was DEFINITELY one-sided, since 99% of those guys are gay. Oh yes, the fourth deployment, was the magnificent Gerard Butler. Mostly from the movie "PS I Love You" (which many will dispute was a horrible movie -- how dare they speak of my deployment boyfriend that way!) Somewhere, deep inside, I think my crush may have been reciprocated on that one. Just the way he looked at me during the movie....moving on.

So. The question now is: who will it be this time? Who will join me on a daily basis and let me enjoy them via the television, movie, book or a radio?

I never know who is going to catch my eye, as I wait for a letter, phone call (ha!), or email (haha!) from my one true love (my hubby). But I have some early contenders (a woman does have to be prepared for these long, lonely deployments-- it says so in the Army handbook):

1. The guy from Cash Cab.
2. Mike from the show Pickers.
3. Ruff Ruffman. Ok, the voice of Ruff Ruffman. I'm not that weird. I KNOW he is a cartoon dog for God's sake.

Which brings me to the current crush brewing in my brain: The voice of "Kenny the Shark" whom I have had the pleasure of listening to for the last five grocery shop runs and school pick ups. Yes, I know in real life he is a cartoon shark. But as I am driving and following all traffic laws, the voice coming from behind me is a handsome, sarcastic Scottish dark haired man with a very keen sense of humor. (I never really got over my Gerard Butler crush, I admit it.) And come to think of it, I think Ruff Ruffman and Kenny the Shark are the same guy.

So listening from behind me, I am finding crushes. Looking ahead of me, my heart starts to feel the crush of the soon to be departure. I don't want to say good bye to the love of my life. I don't want to. But at least I will have my pretend boyfriends-- gay or cartoon -- to keep me company.

It's Time

It's been a year. I know. For a writer to not write much of anything, nary a word, is sacrilege. Perhaps I will be forgiven if I account for my departure of the writing world. So we go back.

The Monster did come back, but not nearly as voracious as I thought it would. I found a doctor, close by, whom I am not exactly thrilled with, but supplies me with the meds that keep the pain at bay. He still doesn't actually believe that I have TN, but - hey - you can't have everything. A doctor that actually believes you AND prescribes the right meds? Puhlease.



Fortunately for my writing (and perhaps for my readers), this year will prove to be prolific in giving me plenty to vent, rant and rave about. Yes, the Army has wrapped it's long spidery arms around my husband again, and he is off to pay his dues in the sun and sand. Sounds lovely doesn't it? Sun, sand? Oh, to be truly a vacation. Not war. Not danger. Not....what it is.



And this time around (is it the fourth, fifth? I can't even keep it straight anymore) the deployment will bring new challenges as the kids are older, wiser and won't be placated with "Daddy's at work" anymore. They will know. Well, the older two will know. Not only because they are older and go to school with other Army kids with Dads and Moms "over there" but because we have seen far too many military funeral processions pass by our school, our grocery store, our church. They know to stop what they are doing and just be quiet. They know that for every white stone we pass on our travels across Post, lies a soldier who "went to work" and never came back.



Oh, how to get through it AGAIN? How to say good bye, turn to my children with a plastered-on smile and say, "Ok guys, let's have some fun." It worked the first three (four?) times....not sure it will work this time.



And so I will write. The ups, the downs, the in's the outs. And along the way...perhaps I will find a way to get through it -- again. For the fourth (fifth?) time.

Until

Can you hear that noise? A slight, slow scratch. A deep and low groan. Beneath the surface, the electric pain is starting to erupt. Two years to the day the monster reared it's ugly head and threw my world upside down. Then -- reprieve. Almost a year and a half of glorious days with nary a twitch. Until last Saturday, when the first twinges woke me up in the middle of the night.

No. No way. Just a twinge. Must be the weather. (Yes, when the weather is changing, I can feel it in my teeth.) But then Sunday came, then the next day, the next. Oh no. What have I done? What can I do? I look back at my records. My multiple notes from the neurologists. I dig out from my safe, my last remains of my meds -- are they expired? Will they work again? I cry. I pray. I beg -- please no! Not again! Not now!

And so I wait for the beast to show full and strong. I remain quiet, waiting for my face to contort to the pain mask that I wore. I am already saying goodbye to the life I have built here, to the Mom I have been. Because when the trigeminal neuralgia monster awakens fully, it consumes everyone and everything in it's path.

Will I survive it this time? Will my family? Will I find a doctor here that will believe me? And isn't it ironic, that on February 12, 2008 I wrote a very similar note on a scraggly piece of paper. Only then, I didn't recognize the monster. We hadn't yet formally met.