I'm Back. You know what that means, I need therapy. You know who is the therapist, my keyboard. You know who gets to read all my insanity, You. Seriously I don't know how real writers get any sleep because 95% of the stuff I write either hits me when I hit the pillow, in the middle of the night, or in the wee hours of the morning. I have to try to remember all the good stuff I had in my head during the night and by the time I get to the computer most of it is floating in outer space, but for some reason this one stuck like glue. I was up a lot last night and I am blaming it on the cortisone shot in my foot that seemed to hype me up a little bit.
The Blame Game. What a title and what does it mean? I have no idea why those three little words came to mind at 1:00 am but they did and I thought on them long and hard all night. I was thinking of all the games shows we all know so well, Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy, The Newly Wed Game, etc. All the games people play for a good time or to make them use their thinking cap, like we use to do in first grade. Remember? Everyone put on your thinking cap as the teacher would show you how to do it and you would all do the same thing. The only problem for some of us that stupid imaginary cap never worked. I hated putting on my thinking cap. Now I wish I could take the darn think off as easily as the teacher taught me to put it on, but it doesn't seem to work.
The Blame Game for me and for many people who are chronically is somewhat of a different game than most people ever have to play in their lifetime. The game for me/us is the game that goes something like this. My foot has been bothering me a lot over the past three months, the blame? It has to be the inflammation. I am struggling with more migraines and headaches it has to be from the inflammation or the fact that I had my throat sliced wide open and two disc's fused back together. I am tired, dog dead tired, or in the case of our house cat tired, it has to be from all the inflammation that would be the only blame for that. I want to walk, a real walk like 5 miles, but I can't. It has to be from the muscle weakness that slams me to the ground after walking 5 minutes, but I still force myself to walk 10 at least, it has to be the inflammation or whatever else is ravishing my body. You see the game for me is a game of survival. A survival on a daily basis to get through the symptoms that invade my body. Life becomes a game. You go out in public or meet with people and watch them, most of them only concerned with what they must do next, while for me this may be my only trip out of the house for the past few days and it is exhausting to say the least, has to be the inflammation. The Blame Game.
Yesterday I had an appointment with my Neurologist/Opthamologist Dr. Glisson. What a wonderful man. We were sitting in the room before he came in, just after the nurse told me my BP was 165/96. My mind thinking cool maybe I will stroke out right here and all this will end. Yes, I do have thoughts like that at times, I am human and I can only take so much. I did keep that thought to myself because it upsets Rich so when I say things like that. Anyways when the nurse left I was figeting and Rich said in his usual sweet, caring voice, "Whats wrong?" My response as always, "I'm nervous." He said, "Just settle down it is Dr Glisson he is always calm, cool, and collected." He's right but it has nothing to do with Dr. Glisson, I love him, it has to do with the whole idea of another doctor's appointment, another game, but we won't go there. All went well and nothing has changed since the last appointment, I'll see you back in six months. Sheeeeeeewwww that ones over!
This appointment turned out to be a stressor ahead of time because I had something written on my notes that I never thought I would have had to write, or even want to ask one of my doctors.We were checking out and Rich said, "You forgot to ask him about the handicap sticker." "Oh ya" I said as Dr was filling out some check out papers. Timidly, scared, ashamed, as if the words came out of my mouth but someone else said them I asked, "Do you think I could get a handicap sticker?" His response without hesitation was, "Sure." I was shocked as I started pleading my case before the word "Sure" had even processed in my tiny drugged infested brain. I continued my case as if I was in a court room. "I won't use it much only when I have more than one stop or if I am having a weak day. I will try my hardest not to use it, really. He asked the girl for the paper to fill out and I died inside. When he turned and handed me the paper I told him I would probably cry for a month about this. He said, "I'm not concerned about your using the sticker as much as I am concerned about that, as he was referring to the crying." I have been told my all my doctors that I am way to hard on myself and need to learn to stop pushing myself so hard. I sure wish I could stop that. A work in progress. It was one of the hardest, saddest moments of my life. I know everyone is thinking, 'what is the big deal if you 'need it get a handicap sticker just and use it,' but it is a big deal when it is happening to you. Blame it on the inflammation.
The appointment was over and I waiting for Rich to go get the car to pick up his old, inflamed lady/wife at the front door, all alone feeling like I was floating in space from the shock of such a simple thing. Rich pulled ups as close to the door as he always does as he is the only one who knows what is really going on with me. I don't understand his love and loyalty it always blows me away. We headed over to the store because we needed a few things and I glanced over the handicap form the doctor signed for me to take to the Secretary of State. I read half way down just as Rich and I were discussing if this would, one, cost anything and two, if it expired or would have to renewed every year. Just them I saw the boxes, the two boxes. One said permanent and the other said temporary. The one with the check mark was permanent. I immediately silenced myself. Thought for a few minutes and said to Rich, "The permanent box is check." Tears started to flow. It was another blow to me to think this really IS it for me. I have been hoping everyday for the last five years that tomorrow I would wake up my old self and at that moment that check mark in that box said it all for me. Acceptance? I thought I had accepted all of this to some degree, and I have, but I not totally and I'm not sure I ever will, but right there that check mark on that paper may as well have been a dagger jabbing in and out of my heart by the devil. I cried, felt sorry for myself, thought about all my friends my age and older who were able to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted and thought this just isn't fair. Rich told me it is okay. I wiped my tears and said, Enough of this talk what do we need at the store and asked him what shall we eat for dinner?"
So as you can see being ill is not only the physical game it is a mental game, it an eat you alive if you let it. Just when you think you are on top of it and you have either won the game, to some degree, or you have accepted the game, it all comes crashing down on you again and you must deal with it head on, over and over again, because it is always something new. I think that for me and my over active thinking process it is a blessing that I am able to talk to Rich, and move on eventually. Well, at least until The Blame Game rears it ugly head just one more time. If any of this makes sense to you then I am sure you have your own answers to the The Blame Game, but the most important thing is you keep playing the game and don't stop until you win because losing this game is NOT an option.
God Bless!
Dianne
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