My loyal followers (Hi Mom & Dad!) might have noticed I didn’t write for several weeks. Karma kicked my butt and required all nonworking hours to be medically assisted. While you might be shocked to know that it is possible for me to get any more random, yep…painkillers do it to it. After popping a pain pill and mentioning to Trey that I was considering writing a blog post about porcupine sex, he kindly urged me to take a hiatus and hid the computer. Well, folks, the old saying is true; you can’t keep a bad writer down…unless they are medicated.
It all started several Saturdays ago when I needed to pee really bad. Unfortunately one toilet is still on the front porch and the other was occupied. Unlike the others in my house, I have to wait my turn for the potty. Jack has the luxury of wearing diapers and the other two can take full advantage of living in the woods. (Ahem…our trees get watered often.) After waiting for eons for an available…seat, I was not in a good mood. To be fair, I’d also been up half the night with a son that was vomiting like a sprinkler system and had to miss a 10K run I’d been training for. I took my sleep-deprived frustration out on my angelic husband in the form of spitting venom. “You NEVER do anything! I’m tired of doing EVERYTHING!” Clearly my overuse of all-or-none speech is an indicator that it was venom and not truth. Trey works hard and is often the first to volunteer to help friends or family out in a pinch. But I was mad. I stomped my anger outside and was determined to show the world how hard I work. I began pulling every weed I could find and then moved on to blackberry vines and small trees. I kid you not. “I’ll show them! I’ll make this yard beautiful and then they will be forced to appreciate the amazing, infallible person that I am!?” Once my muttering had decreased in both frequency and intensity, Trey slowly approached me in the yard. I could be wrong, (it does happen…once or twice a year, just ask Trey) but as my memory has it, Trey was approaching wearing riot gear? Hmmm. Anyway, he gently suggested that I might like some help pulling trees from the ground. At this point I was still mildly angry but my back was getting tired from all the straining and screaming. I agreed to let Trey help but insisted that I be the one who attached the straps from the cable to the trees. And so we worked for a couple hours, me bending and straining, while Trey pushed the gas on the four-wheeler to pluck the trees out of the ground to be taken to the fire pit. Soon this too began to hurt my back. Trey then suggested that I might take a break and drive the four wheeler and he would do the bending and strapping. One time, folks, one time. I gunned the engine and the four wheeler’s speed jerked me backwards and my back exploded. However, I couldn’t admit to Trey that I needed a break. I was trying to prove a point…so I sucked it up and carried on until I couldn’t anymore. The moment of defeat came at the grocery store among the frozen foods. I had to have help putting my groceries on the belt and later into the car. Sometime that night I confessed the level of my pain to Trey and told him that he must score me some drugs. I begged pain pills leftover from a loved one’s recent heart surgery. Two days later, I called a coworker and arranged to pick up muscle relaxers at her house. I drove to her house, with my baby in the back seat, and scored more meds. This was made even more funny by the fact that she works in the area of substance abuse counseling. After 3 days of suffering and scoring drugs off others, I went to my doctor. She ordered X-rays and gave me pain pills and muscle relaxers. Don’t get me wrong, the drugs made my life more fun but were clearly not a long term solution.
Two weeks later, I was still not feeling any better so I relented and made an appointment with a local chiropractor. I know that many of my friends are huge believers in this area of care but I’ve always been a bit skeptical. When the doc entered the exam room for the initial consult, I politely informed him that I was nervous because it was my first time visiting a “witch doctor.” He smiled and laughed and then proceeded to torture me. (Not really but it makes for better reading this way, right?!) Several weeks have since passed and I’m feeling better. I don’t know if it was the voodoo spine popping or time that brought the healing. Regardless, I’m thankful to be on the mend.
I’m also glad to leave the muscle relaxers and pain meds in the cabinet. Sure, its nice to float above my body sometimes but not every night. I prefer wine for that effect. Besides, I have an irrational fear of being perceived as a drug addict. (I’m not as concerned that people will judge me for my love of wine. It makes no sense.) Several years ago, my gallbladder decided to explode in my body. (This is the actual medical explanation.) My bestie Beth took me to the ER and sat with me while the medical professionals determined what to do. The more meds I was given, the more Beth said I would drunkenly explain “I’m not med seeking!” I’m not sure why I’m so afraid of people thinking I’m an addict. I don’t try to appear “normal” in any other area of my life. I feel the need to justify each dose of medication I take. “Trey, I’m going to take a tylenol because I’m in extreme pain but I promise I’ll only take one. Why don’t you dispense the pills so I don’t go overboard?” “Dr. I have an infection but I think I just need half the antibiotic. If I take all of it, I’ll feel a strong sense of shame. I promise I won’t look for more at any street corners.”
I suppose I need an intervention for my fear of needing an intervention. My loved ones may need to sit in a circle at a hotel with Candy Finnegan and discuss the ways my fear of requiring an intervention is interfering with my life. They will certainly need to set their bottom lines. “Lauren, if you do not seek help for your weirdness I will be forced to cut you out of my life.” “Lauren, take the damn tylenol without feeling the need to explain your actions.” “Lauren, I love you but I’m not willing to love you to death…or whatever this is.” Its a serious problem…in my mind…and possibly nowhere else. Too bad they only film intervention in Canada these days, eh.