One year and it still hurts

It has been one year since the shingles outbreak. The thought of it still scares me. The pain, well, that's still here.

I'd like a new nervous system, please.
























This can only mean that it's time for the big annual conference for professionals in my field. This year, there's no travel. The conference is right here at home. I could have used this site selection last year. I'd gladly go to New York now. Of course, I'm presenting this year and my session is going to be either fabulously innovative or an unmitigated disaster. I usually don't get worked up by this type of thing, but this year my session was chosen as a spotlight session. Shit. This kind of pressure I do not need. There is no way I could have done this presentation or any other last year.

A year ago. I was miserable in New York a year ago. New York. This anniversary means that Laurel has been reading this blog for a year.

I wonder if I'll still have pain a year from now.

I saw Dr. G today for nerve block injections and more dry needling. This time it was about 30 or so stabs with the acupuncture needles, as well. Dr. G continues to be impressed with and concerned about my unbelievable ability to bear pain in silence. While she was working, I asked her how she came to choose urology as her area of specialization. She said that at med school sub-specialty sign-up, she accidentally got in the line for urology instead of neurology.

Actually, she liked surgery but didn't want to spend every waking minute of her life working. We talked about that for bit, then she asked me something about my bipolar disorder. I told her that I lost at least two years of my life to the illness, but I'm still muddled. I cannot recreate the chronology without looking at my medical records. I find that disconcerting. I called the big meltdown my "dark and dangerous time." I told her what I've said before--that had I known how bad it was going to get and how hard it would be to get back, I never would have made the journey. I also said that it's probably a protective measure, but doctors don't tell you that it will get worse before it gets better, nor do they divulge how long it takes to get stable and then healthy. It's a long time and a dangerous one, at that.

I told Dr. G how lonely an illness BP is. People you thought would stick by you and give you the benefit of the doubt, don't. Work is an almost unbearable burden, and it's hard to bear witness as your assumed support system dissolves around you. I told her I was wiser and more introspective, sadder but more sure that I have what it takes to find the answers that can keep me alive.

Before Dr. G left the room, she took my hands in hers and said, "I want to tell you something. Thank you. Thank you for hanging on and coming through that dark, dangerous time. I do know that it's very hard. I do believe you are strong and wonderful and the world is better because you are here."

Then, she leaned over and pulled me close for a long, long hug. With her head next to mine, she said, "I have some colleagues who also struggle with the illness and who made it through the dark time and the journey back to life. I see how much it takes for them to manage the illness. I know that it's hard and it takes self-love and a lot of strength to survive the illness." It was a long hug. Did I mention that?

I told Dr. G that I live with a constant, underlying anxiety that another meltdown will happen and I won't be able to get through it. I said that it takes a leap of faith to embark on a course of treatment that has no guarantee of success. She agreed and said that her colleagues had expressed the same feeling.

She put her hand on the doorknob and said, "Love is the only thing that works. Where there is love, pain will fade and we find the wellness we need. You need to love yourself, May. If you can do that, the rest will take care of itself and what you really need will come to you.

I like my doctor a lot.