Life in a Nutshell

The Silent Metamorphosis of Pain

Oh God no, please...

The slow ache in my side that had started five days ago, had blossomed to a breathtaking gnawing, crushing sensation that felt like wild dogs were tearing my entrails out, Cujo style. The searing pain was bright and red and took up my brain space like I was staring at the sun.

I couldn't see anything else other than pain. It was sucking my life away, turning my workday into brain-grilling torture.

I made it to the women's restroom and sat, rocking on the toilet, nauseous with silent tears leaking out of my eyes. Breathing like my mother told me she did when she was in labor. In - Outoutout. In - Outoutout.

I quietly sob. Why me? Why again? We can't afford this. I can't do this. I can't handle the pain. I'm not ready for this again. It's not fair! I've changed. I'm taking the right medications, I've changed my diet, I'm drinking all the water I can.

I knew this episode would most likely culminate in another surgery, more toxic painkillers, more damage, more missed work, and more expense we can't afford.

Another wave hits me, and I whip around. My knees hit the tile and I vomit into the toilet, making the pain worse. I rest my head on my hands, spitting the rest of the bile from my stomach into the bowl.

Back at my desk, my hands shake as I call my husband at his store. "Can you come get me? I can't take it. I need to go to the Emergency Room."

I get chronic kidney stones.

I've gotten them for twenty-three years. Several per year. Most I can pass - some I can't. I've had over fifteen surgeries in those twenty-three years. Four in the last three years. Things are degrading faster now that I'm almost fifty.

The doctors presume it's a genetic kidney defect. There's no known underlying cause. My left kidney makes many more than the right, but both are covered in cysts and full of calculi right now. I had an ultrasound three weeks ago that proved it.

It's only a matter of time before I get another one.

The last one I had formed within my kidney and was bigger than a grape, called a Staghorn stone. The surgeon had to perform a PCNL, which means she had to go through my back, drill a hole in my kidney, break the stone apart with a laser and suck it out. It was a full day of two different procedures utilizing complete and twilight anesthesia and massive foam blocks, which I don't think I was supposed to see.

I'm pretty sure they had to truss me up and pose me in all kinds of positions to get at the stone.

I don't register pain the same way as a healthy person anymore.

If I ignore it, and I'm good at ignoring it, stuff goes wrong. I had a massive infection and hydronephrosis in 2020, because I was hopeful that I could pass the stone. I mean, I had a baby in 2015. That hurt, but not as bad as this did.

I can't ignore it anymore.

I'm now at stage two CKD, chronic kidney disease, because of all the damage my kidneys have endured from these stones. My blood tests are all over the charts. I've developed other awful side effects, like the start of peripheral neuropathy.

My nerves are actually dying from the toxins my body can't rid from itself.

I get anxiety about it.

I mean, I have a child. He's wonderful - and needs his mother to last another twenty years at least! I'd love to see a grandbaby at some point, but at this rate I'm not sure how it's going to play out.

I breathe a lot. I breathe through pain, I breathe through tears, I breathe and pray and hope for a miracle.

I have hope. I know I can never give up, but sometimes giving up feels like it would be easier.

Pain can change you.

It can make you distrust yourself, your body and your brain.

Pain can cause depression like you've never thought of before.

I've considered myself a pretty even keel type person, not too high, never too low. When things get tough, I toughen up. When the waves are high, I find my gratitude, count my blessings and start resurfacing. I paddle my way toward shallow waters where my toes touch the ground.

But when pain clouds my thinking, I crave anything that will make it go away. Never drugs, those are false solutions. And I've had my fair share of prescription Percocet and Oxy. All it ever did was make me sleepy, they never fixed anything.

I crave touch, the warmth of belonging to someone, deep rest, the assurance that those near me won't abandon me in this sea of pain. It's rudimentary, visceral and necessary.

When I first started getting stones, I would cry and heave. Vomit and pace the hallway. I'd hyperventilate and constantly move. It felt like someone sawing me in half from the inside out. It felt like I was living through Foxe's Book of Martyrs.

But years of pain does a funny thing. Our brains adapt. We transform pain into something else. It becomes internal, not showing outwardly. I've blocked the most severe pain. It just doesn't register anymore, which is kind of scary.

I went grey early. My dark brown hair was almost completely grey by the age of thirty-eight. My body transformed that pain into a physical manifestation.

After twenty years of daily, monthly pain, it's become a non-event. Like children who experience trauma, they block it out, choose to forget, or lose time. Like victims of extreme violence, or crash survivors, we've lost some time.

I have to look at records to remember surgeries. I don't remember them all. I don't want to; I choose not to remember.

About fifteen years ago, I was lying in bed, suffering from a stone, unable to focus while watching The Shawshank Redemption.

Those words, "You have to either get busy living, or get busy dyin'." They bounced around in my brain for a few days, like a pinball creating sparks as it hit every heavy metal flipper on the way down.

That was my moment, the defining choice. I had to get myself out of mental limbo and stop being afraid. And I was so tired of being afraid.

I was terrified of my own body, of letting my husband down, of losing my job, of not being able to live the way I wanted, or financially save for our future the way I wanted.

I was terrified of dying before I was ready. I still am, but now I use the fear and pain as a catalyst.

The metamorphosis is quiet. Sometimes I still can't see it, when I'm in the middle of an episode. When my life falls apart a little bit more with each passing year, and my options for relief become narrower and more restrictive, or even more dangerous; I try to look at things differently.

Now, instead of fear - I choose to slow down and enjoy those times that are without those things.

I wake up every morning and take stock. Can I feel anything? Is there blood in my urine? How about a stretch, a twist, a bend to touch my toes. Nothing? No aches, no twinges!

It's going to be a great day! I smile at myself in the mirror, maybe think about a new haircut or pedicure. I inhale again, tensing my core. Nope. No pain, or at least nothing life changing. Then I can start my day.

I try to think in There are many different mental models. But the one I like the most is The Map is not the Territory. The map of my reality is not all the reality. What I'm going through may be difficult, but it's not my whole reality. I can change my focus in this reality. I'm not a victim of my circumstances, and I can choose how I react - most of the time.

Believing in a different more positive focus has made all the difference for me. Even with the darkness and pain around the corner, I can continue to enjoy my life. I have so many things to be grateful for.

I can still write; I have an understanding employer. I have health insurance. I have a husband who still loves me after thirty years. I have a family. I live in a house and have dinner every night.

Those storms that wait beyond the door. The wolf at my window with ravening jaws and bloody fangs. He can wait. We both know he'll get his pound of flesh soon. But today - today he can kick rocks. I feel good.

I'm in metamorphosis.