*Preface: A mysterious golf ball sized indent was found at the base of my spine a few weeks ago.
“There is an indent right on the base of my spine,” I said.
My pain specialist’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“I have a sink hole above my butt crack.”
His face remained unchanged.
“There is literally a pocket of nothingness where my butt padding used to be.”
He shifted his surgical cap as if he was trying to work out the kinks in his English translation.
“You can touch my belly button if you put your finger in my ass hole.”
“Why would anyone want to do that Mrs. M?” he asked at rapid fire.
“Oh my god. I did not mean the actual hole in my ass. I mean rectum. I was talking about the inde—”
“Yes. Yes. An indent above your bottom,” he rolled his eyes. ”You explained that very well thank you. I was thinking.”
He grabbed my shoulders and carefully spun me around. I pointed to the crater in question. Like a curious child with a stick standing above road kill, Dr. D poked it.
“Does it hurt when I do this?”
When I’m done scrapping my face from your ceiling, I’ll let you know.
Dr. D was, very respectfully, unsure of what it was. Since I had an appointment with my family doctor the next day, he decided to let her do further investigating and to continue with my xylocaine infusion to treat the pain.
He left me alone in the procedure room as the IV ran at a snails pace. I sat in front of a large 3 paned window with twisted horizontal blinds. In a very ghetto way, they allowed for just the right amount of light to promote some sort of relaxation.
An hour had passed and I became restless. The cardiac monitor that I was chained to, sounded off every time I itched my nose. I had flat lined at least 7 times. My IV kept snagging on my sweater and I wished that someone would answer the fucking phone already.
I slammed my head against the back of the chair over and over as I thought, “What in the hell have I done to deserve this?”
I turned my face away from the door so no one would see me cry. I spotted the nine vacant lounge chairs to my left and it made me imagine of all the poor souls that came in here every single day for pain management.
People who have it far worse than I do.
No one was going to have the liberty to “outshine” my issues that day.
I have bipolar disorder and anxiety disorder and chronic pain and I have to pay $250 every time I get this IV because our government would rather pay full price for obese people to get gastric bypass surgery and I got a letter from the College Of Nurses Of Ontario for kindly reminding me that I haven’t worked in 3 years and so they are revoking my license…
And did I mention that my blender broke, my dog puked up a bar of soap, and oh yea, I have a sink hole above my ass crack.
A new ass hole.
My cardiac monitor began to chime and I looked up. I couldn’t reach the “silence” button and knew that Dr. D was about ready to fly in at any minute.
I’m one of his special patients that ”pass out” and have weird reactions to xylocaine.
My snot was about to run and I realized that I had no tissues. There was a package of gauze next to me and I started ripping it open.
I was in mid blow when Dr. D came in.
“Are you ok? Are you dizzy? You tell me if you’re dizzy. Are you? You worry me too much. I should put you in the hall so I can watch you.”
He fiddled around with the machine and then flopped down in a lounge chair and flung his skinny legs over the side.
“It sucks doesn’t it?”
I nodded my head as my lip began to quiver.
“It’s ok to tell yourself that it sucks because it is booooool shit,” he said in his thick Indian accent.
He rubbed the top of his head and said, “You know what also sucks? This wall colour. What do you think would be a good colour for these walls?”
I started to laugh.
For the next 2 hours, we talked about decorating.
When I left his office,I felt better for letting all of the anger, frustration, and helplessness out.
A little self indulgent pity party was what I needed to lighten my soul.
*I think that we are hardwired into thinking that we shouldn’t feel sorry for ourselves because “there is always someone who is far worse.” And that is true, however, we can’t always undermine what we are going through and what we are feeling. Does it not make you feel worse knowing that your problems are miniscule compared to those who have it far worse?
You should be grateful.
And we are.
You don’t have the right to complain.
But we do.
Regardless of what your situation is, we are all allowed to grieve and to feel sorry for ourselves.
Just so long as we remember that we can’t get stuck there.
Do you allow yourself to indulge in a pity party?
PS. No idea what the hole is as of yet.