I never saw this one coming.Just over a week ago, still fighting "considerable discomfort" - my code for "a lot of pain" - I met with my surgeon's assistant to figure out what to do next. Based on my description of the pain and what seemed to aggravate it, he diagnosed an inflammation of the trochanteric bursa - a small, fluid-filled sac on the bony protrusion of the thigh bone, just a few inches from where my old hip joint was sawed off and a titanium replacement was installed. All of this is thoroughly explained in the previous entry to this blog. Last Friday afternoon, T.J., the physician's assistant, injected the bursa with a dose of steroid and told me to give it a few days and see if that might help. I was encouraged he had a plan, because this nagging pain just wasn't going away. Even though it was different from the awful pre-surgery bone-on-bone pain, it was almost as limiting in its own way. Yeah, I'm very glad I had the damaged hip replaced with a new one, but extremely disappointed to have seemingly traded one kind of pain for another. T.J.'s diagnosis and treatment gave me hope. I headed into the weekend with more optimism than I'd had in several weeks.
By Sunday, the pain had begun to dissipate. On Monday, for the first time since months before my surgery, I needed only a single 5 mg. hydrocodone pain pill. By Tuesday, the pain had eased even more. It wasn't gone completely, but it had certainly eased to the point that I felt I could function without having to smack down the pain with narcotic medication. I took some Tylenol in the morning, some more Tylenol after lunch, and settled in behind my computer for the last half of the work day. And that's when it started.
At first, it felt like my insides were being tied in knots, like I might be sick to my stomach. Then I noticed I was clenching my teeth, almost biting my lips. My head started to pound. I looked in the mirror and saw wide eyes staring back at me, cold sweat on my forehead. I was shaking, if not visibly, at least on the inside... needing to get up and walk around, wanting to go somewhere, do something. The large muscles of both my legs began to burn. I thought of the three hydrocodone pills in my pocket. This was, after all "discomfort," so why not take one? But this was the day I'd wanted to go without any narcotics... not for any reason other than to convince myself that T.J.'s treatment last Friday had worked. My head pounded some more, my legs hurt more. I compromised and took half a pill.
Within 30 minutes, the mystery symptoms began to back down. And that's all I needed to know: It was the hydrocodone, the narcotic pain medication. It had me.
I'd needed every single dose I'd taken over the past year - the months of trying to nail down a diagnosis, the months of trying to see if I could avoid or delay surgery, the weeks of waiting for the operation, and the three months since the procedure. Never once did I take a pill for any reason other than I was in significant pain. I've known people who've abused narcotics - actually known three who died from narcotics abuse/overdose - so I've been plenty motivated not to abuse narcotics. I've been strictly business with my pain medicine - taking only what I needed to beat back the pain to a point where I could function at home, at work, walk the dogs, do things around the house, stuff like that. If I hadn't had the medication, I would simply not have been able to participate in life over the past year. I knew the risk of tolerance, dependence, even addiction - but I really didn't have much choice. The pain was all-limiting, all-encompassing, and I am a very pragmatic person. If there's something that helps, something that allows me to function, I'm certainly not too proud to take it. When I'd say my prayers, I'd even give thanks for pain medication and the doctors who believed me enough to prescribe it. I even thought about the generations of people who lived in pain before modern medicine, the people who live in pain today and can't get medication, the months I knew something was wrong and I did without medication. I really, really treated this stuff with respect and gratitude, as if that would somehow keep me out of harm's way. But it didn't.
The good news is I think we're wining the battle of the inflamed bursa. The bad news is I'm in the midst of another battle.
So that was last Tuesday. Today is Sunday. I'm still fighting this thing. I tried making it through Wednesday without any meds, but by the time I got home from work my brain was screaming, my eyes were as wide as ping-pong balls, my insides felt hopelessly twisted like a long-forgotten string of Christmas lights, my major muscle groups felt as if they'd be doused with lighter fluid and lit afire. It was only then that I told Hettie what was going on. Considering the whopping doses of medicine I'd been on just before and just after the surgery (30 mg daily pre-op and up to 80 mg immediately post-op), she encouraged me to try stepping down gradually from the narcotics. I'd made it through the previous day with just 2.5 mg - why not try that for a while? And so I did - one more time. I took half a pill and tried to outrun the demons as I hooked up the dogs and headed out for a walk. I had to keep moving until the medication reached my brain. The storm abated somewhat, but for the second consecutive night I got almost no sleep. My muscles cramped, my head felt as if someone had slipped a small inner-tube just inside my brain and slowly inflated it. Not exactly the recipe for a good night's sleep.
I knew Thursday would be the day I'd take no meds, no way, no how. As much as I needed the meds before, I knew I needed to get off them now. I may have had no problem taking narcotics, but once I knew what had to happen, I was determined to see it through. I went to work with one pill in my pocket. I guess that was my way of saying to myself the 1/2-pill option was still available if I needed it - but, truthfully, I was absolutely intent on not taking it.
And I made it through what was an awful, awful day. But I made it. Again, not much sleep that night, and I considered taking a vacation-day Friday...but I didn't. I also thought the withdrawal symptoms would be gone after one day of no narcotics - and I was way, way wrong about that. The battle was just as fierce on Friday. When my boss showed up at 3:30 with a project that needed to be finished in two hours - a project that I usually require 48-hours notice to complete - my raging brain just about departed my skull. But I hung in there. To my knowledge, neither he nor anyone else knew what was going on.
At one point I considered meeting with my staff, apologizing for what seemed like a lousy week of being a boss. I mean, how effective could I have been as a leader last week? But I didn't say anything, didn't want them to know, didn't want to make excuses. I just wanted to beat this thing - get it behind me.
I confessed to one friend that I was "going through a challenge this week" but that I wouldn't want to talk about it until it was behind me, until I was reporting the scenario from a position of strength.
It's Sunday morning as I write this. After consecutive 1/2 pill days (Tuesday and Wednesday), I'm now on the fourth day of no meds. And the battle still rages. But I'm bigger than this; I'm going to win. I unwittingly made a deal with the Devil having needed pain medicine for as long as I did. Last Tuesday he tapped me on the shoulder and demanded payment. That ain't gonna happen. This is where I draw my own line in the sand.
