A separate pain

Discussion in 'Fibromyalgia Main Forum' started by LiteraryPumpkin, Dec 1, 2002.

  1. LiteraryPumpkin

    LiteraryPumpkin New Member

    Copyright 2003, Russell Rankin

    Sometimes, pain and despair separates us from those whose support we need most. My brothers and sisters with FM/CFS/IBS have all learned a lesson on a subject never broached by any school: Socially Unacceptable Suffering 101.

    A SEPARATE PAIN

    Got a minute? Actually, we could be talking 10 minutes.

    I’m asking you to come along with me. Where are we going? Into a dream, my friend, my dream.

    OK. You ready?

    The Setting:

    It is Thanksgiving evening. We go to a house and inside are my relatives, including in-laws. Now, the only people there that are not family are you (you are invisible by the way) and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    Dinner is finished. Everyone is taking turns telling stories about their closest brush with death.

    People are standing around Arnold (how strange is that?) and he is talking (big surprise there too, huh?).

    Arnold: “Yah, Yah, I ended up vith 3,513 stitches!”

    Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”

    My cousin Gary: “Say Arnie, tell us more about the surgery.”

    Arnold: “Yah, OK. Dey cut my chest open vith a power saw.”

    Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”

    Arnold: “Yah, vel, ven I voke up, it hurt very much!”

    My cousin Debbie: “Didn’t they give you pain killers?”

    Arnold: “Yah, vel, I’m a bawdy builder and I don’t vant no drugs.”

    My Aunt: “What did you do?”

    Arnold: “Yah, vel, Mahreeah gave me a leather strap to chew on.”

    Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”

    Finally, ‘Arnie’ finishes and the group looks at me.

    Me? What was the question Again? Oh yeah, brushes with death. What do I say?

    Maybe this:

    “I thought I was a goner last week. I was in terrible pain. I was on the toilet so long that I became worried that someone would stop me later in the day and say: “Hey buddy, is that a toilet seat in your back pocket, or are you just shaped that way?”

    My God, I can’t say that!

    I look at the crowd. “They’re waiting”, I muse.

    OK, OK. THINK.

    I know, I’ll just tell them the honest truth. I want to rehearse it in my mind before I say it however.

    “Last night, I thought I was going to die. I can tell you this: there were times when I wished I were dead. Here I am on the toilet with cramps and gas from hell. I’m rocking back and forth as wave after wave of pain makes me want to scream. I was so convinced that I was dying that I sang the entire first verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Well, as best I could under the circumstances.”

    There is a soft knock on the door, my wife asks: “Are you singing in there?”

    I say, with great care so as to not sound in as much pain as I am, “Oh yeah.”

    “My!, aren’t we the happy one tonight!”, she says as her voice trails off down the hall.

    “There is silence, my pain gets better and then WHAM! It’s so bad that I start to cry. I’m a man. I don’t cry, certainly not over stomach cramps. I’m also a liar because I am crying: big tears falling on my legs. I start to pray: Please God, don’t let me die on the toilet, not the toilet! A car wreck, perhaps a plane crash, but not on the toilet, pleasssssse!”

    ...Soft knock on the door

    “Russell, are you talking to yourself?”, my wife asks.

    “Just reciting the Gettysburg Address, dear”, I say ..

    .. but the ‘r’ is clipped because of a stomach cramp. Then I say (in a voice too low for my wife to hear), “What the hell is four score and 7 anyway?”

    “I’ve been through this crap (pardon the pun) a thousand times and every time I can’t believe how much it hurts. I keep hoping that the last wave was the worst one, then it isn’t. THE BIG ONE COMES. I pray again, “I cannot take this, I just can’t, kill me! Please God.”

    .. Soft knock on the door

    “Honey, it’s 87”, my wife says.

    “Uh, What?”, I retort.

    “Four score and 7”, she responds, “It’s 87.”

    “So, here I am: my pants are around my ankles, I’m on a toilet asking God to kill me and I start laughing. I am in awful pain and still, I’m laughing my ass off (pardon the pun)! How ironic life is, how sublimely ironic. Then, something simply amazing happened: I realized that I felt good about myself as a person. I knew that it wouldn’t last so long I savored the moment.”

    OK, that is the story that I will tell.

    I look at the group. They have grown impatient for my response.

    I say, “My closest brush with death?”

    "The time I rode all the way to San Antonio with my brother-in-law John at the wheel. The longest prayer I ever said in my life.”

    Everyone laughs. Someone slaps me on the back and says, “Good one, Russell.”

    I look at Arnold, wink and say, “Hasta la vista …. baby.” Then, I spin and go out the door. You go with me because this is my dream. What can I say?

    What a smaltzy exit!

    Say! I like this dream! Wait a minute: Am I leaving my own house?” Dreams are so unspecific. I hate that about dreams.

    Now, I’m outside and it’s a beautiful night! I can see my breath in the brisk night air, a dog barks in the distance. I look at the street and I see my Nissan pick-up truck. Are you kidding me? This is a dream and I'm driving that old Nissan?!!!!!!!”

    Just then, an old familiar feeling came upon me. I felt sharp both pain and numbness in my arm and shoulder. I knew that I would wake up in a few seconds and that I would stare in the darkness until (and if) the pain subsides and allows me to sleep again.

    As I ascend to consciousness I get the feeling that someday I will feel good about myself again. Perhaps I will even be proud of how I endured humiliation and pain, perhaps. As if I were verbalizing a wish, I say, “Some day soon I hope, some day soon.”

    Suddenly we’re awake. Remember: you are with me.

    My wife is peppering me with questions: “What’s wrong? Are you alright? You were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming?”

    “I’m OK dear”, I lie. “Yes, I was dreaming. I will tell you all about it .. soon, some day soon.”

    Pumpkin
  2. LiteraryPumpkin

    LiteraryPumpkin New Member

    Copyright 2003, Russell Rankin

    Sometimes, pain and despair separates us from those whose support we need most. My brothers and sisters with FM/CFS/IBS have all learned a lesson on a subject never broached by any school: Socially Unacceptable Suffering 101.

    A SEPARATE PAIN

    Got a minute? Actually, we could be talking 10 minutes.

    I’m asking you to come along with me. Where are we going? Into a dream, my friend, my dream.

    OK. You ready?

    The Setting:

    It is Thanksgiving evening. We go to a house and inside are my relatives, including in-laws. Now, the only people there that are not family are you (you are invisible by the way) and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    Dinner is finished. Everyone is taking turns telling stories about their closest brush with death.

    People are standing around Arnold (how strange is that?) and he is talking (big surprise there too, huh?).

    Arnold: “Yah, Yah, I ended up vith 3,513 stitches!”

    Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”

    My cousin Gary: “Say Arnie, tell us more about the surgery.”

    Arnold: “Yah, OK. Dey cut my chest open vith a power saw.”

    Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”

    Arnold: “Yah, vel, ven I voke up, it hurt very much!”

    My cousin Debbie: “Didn’t they give you pain killers?”

    Arnold: “Yah, vel, I’m a bawdy builder and I don’t vant no drugs.”

    My Aunt: “What did you do?”

    Arnold: “Yah, vel, Mahreeah gave me a leather strap to chew on.”

    Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”

    Finally, ‘Arnie’ finishes and the group looks at me.

    Me? What was the question Again? Oh yeah, brushes with death. What do I say?

    Maybe this:

    “I thought I was a goner last week. I was in terrible pain. I was on the toilet so long that I became worried that someone would stop me later in the day and say: “Hey buddy, is that a toilet seat in your back pocket, or are you just shaped that way?”

    My God, I can’t say that!

    I look at the crowd. “They’re waiting”, I muse.

    OK, OK. THINK.

    I know, I’ll just tell them the honest truth. I want to rehearse it in my mind before I say it however.

    “Last night, I thought I was going to die. I can tell you this: there were times when I wished I were dead. Here I am on the toilet with cramps and gas from hell. I’m rocking back and forth as wave after wave of pain makes me want to scream. I was so convinced that I was dying that I sang the entire first verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Well, as best I could under the circumstances.”

    There is a soft knock on the door, my wife asks: “Are you singing in there?”

    I say, with great care so as to not sound in as much pain as I am, “Oh yeah.”

    “My!, aren’t we the happy one tonight!”, she says as her voice trails off down the hall.

    “There is silence, my pain gets better and then WHAM! It’s so bad that I start to cry. I’m a man. I don’t cry, certainly not over stomach cramps. I’m also a liar because I am crying: big tears falling on my legs. I start to pray: Please God, don’t let me die on the toilet, not the toilet! A car wreck, perhaps a plane crash, but not on the toilet, pleasssssse!”

    ...Soft knock on the door

    “Russell, are you talking to yourself?”, my wife asks.

    “Just reciting the Gettysburg Address, dear”, I say ..

    .. but the ‘r’ is clipped because of a stomach cramp. Then I say (in a voice too low for my wife to hear), “What the hell is four score and 7 anyway?”

    “I’ve been through this crap (pardon the pun) a thousand times and every time I can’t believe how much it hurts. I keep hoping that the last wave was the worst one, then it isn’t. THE BIG ONE COMES. I pray again, “I cannot take this, I just can’t, kill me! Please God.”

    .. Soft knock on the door

    “Honey, it’s 87”, my wife says.

    “Uh, What?”, I retort.

    “Four score and 7”, she responds, “It’s 87.”

    “So, here I am: my pants are around my ankles, I’m on a toilet asking God to kill me and I start laughing. I am in awful pain and still, I’m laughing my ass off (pardon the pun)! How ironic life is, how sublimely ironic. Then, something simply amazing happened: I realized that I felt good about myself as a person. I knew that it wouldn’t last so long I savored the moment.”

    OK, that is the story that I will tell.

    I look at the group. They have grown impatient for my response.

    I say, “My closest brush with death?”

    "The time I rode all the way to San Antonio with my brother-in-law John at the wheel. The longest prayer I ever said in my life.”

    Everyone laughs. Someone slaps me on the back and says, “Good one, Russell.”

    I look at Arnold, wink and say, “Hasta la vista …. baby.” Then, I spin and go out the door. You go with me because this is my dream. What can I say?

    What a smaltzy exit!

    Say! I like this dream! Wait a minute: Am I leaving my own house?” Dreams are so unspecific. I hate that about dreams.

    Now, I’m outside and it’s a beautiful night! I can see my breath in the brisk night air, a dog barks in the distance. I look at the street and I see my Nissan pick-up truck. Are you kidding me? This is a dream and I'm driving that old Nissan?!!!!!!!”

    Just then, an old familiar feeling came upon me. I felt sharp both pain and numbness in my arm and shoulder. I knew that I would wake up in a few seconds and that I would stare in the darkness until (and if) the pain subsides and allows me to sleep again.

    As I ascend to consciousness I get the feeling that someday I will feel good about myself again. Perhaps I will even be proud of how I endured humiliation and pain, perhaps. As if I were verbalizing a wish, I say, “Some day soon I hope, some day soon.”

    Suddenly we’re awake. Remember: you are with me.

    My wife is peppering me with questions: “What’s wrong? Are you alright? You were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming?”

    “I’m OK dear”, I lie. “Yes, I was dreaming. I will tell you all about it .. soon, some day soon.”

    Pumpkin

[ advertisement ]