Nine Days Post-Op

It’s January 27^th, 2018, Matthew, my five-foot ten-inch beer bellied stocky built, Monopoly-guy head of a husband, is over at his best friend’s house, sobering up for the last six hours. I can’t help but continue to feel that all of this, the situation we are in, is my fault. Living with my parents isn’t exactly ideal, but we were in trouble and my health has been further deteriorating since the initial diagnoses of my illnesses in 2014. I was diagnosed with Pseudotumor Cerebri, Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD), major depressive and anxiety disorders. I went from a lifelong driving career as a commercial truck driver over the road to homeless, moved back to Florida, now back to living with my mother.

Since October of 2017, I was put out of work, again, gained ninety plus pounds, went from depression to a constant state of paranoia, to not even wanting to do any daily activities because it’s becoming excruciatingly painful to get out of bed each morning. Taking Percocet every four hours, feeling the pinching, burning, stabbing pains in my abdomen, hip, neck, and head, makes me feel like I’m rotating on the Merry-Go-Round between the pain and pain-killers. Not to mention, last week I had brain surgery that resulted in the first machine operated part placement into my body, a VP shunt. This tiny little sweet gherkin sized shunt, installed with a pump, is to help stop the magnanimous fluid from building up in my brain. One of the last preventative measure to protect what eyesight I have left.  

Trying to think of ways to show my stories rather than telling is becoming increasingly difficult, complicated, and time-consuming. However, the idea of learning a new perspective on the different ways to write has intrigued me beyond recognition. I only have one problem, my vision. Although the shunt seems to be doing its job by diverting fluid, decreasing the endless pressure feelings in my head and ruthless headaches that followed, my vision troubles seem only to the beginning and a new onset of headaches have been occurring. These types of symptoms indenturing the servitude of their company are best described as seeing a clear crystal high definition picture to that of a smoke screen effect causing a blur of fuzziness to the once crystal clear picture. In fact, it doesn’t stay like this but instead, happens intermittently and no longer than ten to fifteen minutes at a time with no headache to follow just a weird feeling in my head. My eyes, however, become increasingly tired when my vision becomes a blur and disrupted. I then become increasingly pissed off and frustrated by not being able to see. If my eyesight doesn’t state restored then my actual driving of any vehicle days, are over.

One way I’ve been trying to improve my writing skills is by reading more books. After being given the news of my inevitable blindness, I started to read more books than I thought I would ever imagine. Growing up, I hated to read. I couldn’t even finish my high school assigned books, let alone write a book report. Now, I can’t seem to help myself on writing and reading, well, let’s face it, I enjoy reading. NonFiction, mysteries, romance, and informational books are the main types I like to get my hands on. My mother has been gracious in getting the kindle unlimited for herself and allowing me to read a book or two while she uses it. I was ecstatic when she let me use her kindle unlimited to read books at no cost to me. Matthew and I’s financial troubles have seemed to only grow and dig deeper into debt. By her giving me this opportunity to read more books online, is a godsend. I grow more paranoid by the day that my eyesight will no longer allow me to be able to read books. When my vision does start to stir promiscuous troubles I rely on the app Audible to guild me through the books I am reading.

Another night of insomnia consumed me as I listened to the television in the living room ramble on. My mother, a sixty-year-old woman, slender yet had an upper body of that of a bodybuilder, with her Pink styled haircut, grotesque bosoms self would wheel herself out to her electronic recliner during her restless nights and watch one of her many television shows. Being a paraplegic wasn’t her only medical condition she suffered from, neuropathy and several others consumed her with pain, frustration, and an attitude of the wicked witch of the west at times gave her good enough reasons to be up at night. We were a pair. Both of our husbands knew we both had our ups and downs, yet when it came to doing family things depending on what they were in nature would either be a theatrical disaster waiting to happen or the best well-mannered poker-faced encounter you have ever seen.

Only being a little over a week out of surgery, the effects of it made it difficult to do simple tasks like taking out the trash. Mother had a habit, regardless of the surgery, of trying to have my vacuum, pick up heavy objects, bend down constantly or other means of cleaning or provocative thing that required me to do something that I wasn’t allowed to just yet. I had two fresh incisions trying to heal. One on the right side of my head, one and a half inch in length, shaped in a half moon, two inches behind my right ear. Another on my abdomen, two and a half inches long, right over my rib cage next to my other scar from one of my previous surgeries. 

This made it difficult to complete any task Mother asked me. I became infuriated, saddened, ashamed, and shameful every time she would ask me to do something. The neurosurgeon forewarned me the potential infections and movement of the shunt if I wasn’t careful. “The first four weeks was critical in the healing process”, the surgeon told me. The movement of the shunt would mean another surgery, infection meant the removal of the device completely and well, anything more serious could kill me, like the shunt moving further inward towards my brain. Remaining firm while trying to keep my wits about me as I meandered my big fat behind around the house in my pajamas didn’t seem that hard to do but every step at times was excruciatingly painful. The surgery caused my IBS to go into overdrive acting like my bowels were being rammed by a battering ram on the entrance of large castle doors, it hasn’t been a pleasant experience. While the pressure and swelling of my intestines caused more pressure on my left hip. Taking each step through the house felt like a thousand knives stab my hip and abdomen. To top everything else off, I wasn’t allowed to sleep on my right side until the incisions healed, frankly, I didn’t care, that was until my hip started to hurt. Then, it just became annoying.