The Art of Falling Apart

This post was written a year ago, on August 2, 2008. I'm not falling apart anymore, which is, you know, nice. For those who are new here, I had some nerve damage in my ankles, which took many months to diagnose. My ankles continue to feel better. I continue to feel better.

I have learned a thing or two in the past month. For one, I’ve learned what my priorities are. The shape of my ass falls very far down on the list.

I’ve learned that I can hide at my mother’s for about a day. Then she’ll force me to get up and eat half an egg before she drives me back to my family.

I’ve learned about forgiveness. Somehow I’ve always forgiven the big stuff but not the small. Somehow I’ve always compared myself to others and come up short. I’ve wasted time thinking about myself in the most useless and trivial ways, nursing paltry annoyances, fabricating elaborate needs, clinging to emotional hurts and petty disappointments. Much of my world has revolved around me and much of THAT has played itself out inside the walls of my own head.

I have been reacquainted with depression. I’d forgotten the hopelessness of finding yourself adrift in that bottomless pool of tears, treading water, no ladder or edge to swim to.

I’ve gotten to know other emotional realities too. Fear, lack of control, desperation, frustration. Have you ever seen a 38-year-old woman have a full-fledged temper tantrum? My husband has, about once a week for the past several months. To spare him, as well as my mom, my father-in-law, and my kids, I've started leaving the house, driving to park at the pond behind the library, so I can sob. I never knew how much snot my nose could generate. It’s an amazing instrument, truly. Too bad there’s no good use for snot, except perhaps for preventing a nose bleed.

I’ve never clung to God like this before. I never knew prayer could be a constant conversation, a never-ending source of strength. And hope.

My neurologist called one week ago and said things I didn’t expect her to. Things that resembled possible solutions rather than a life sentence to pain.

We have an awesome priest at my church. He’s in his seventies and recites Shakespeare, latin, art history and scripture with equal verve. Ten years ago, when we buried my Dad, he came to the cemetery. He baptized Ben, my first baby, calling him a “contemplative.” I’m always disappointed when I go to mass and he’s not presiding.

As I sat in his office, admiring the art-lined walls and cradling his box of Kleenex, he kept hopping up to run to his library and bring another book for me to read, endorsing each with Oprah-like enthusiasm. He asked for only one of the books back, and if you know me at all you know that’s one way to cheer me up. Give me an armful of books. He anointed me with oil and he told me the thing that I most needed to hear: that I am not crazy to believe that God will heal me completely. That I must keep believing and expecting God to answer my prayers.

And so I will.

Whazzup!?

I wanted to do a few things before I started blogging again.

I wanted to declutter my house.

I wanted to get a new design because, hello, my wedding rings don’t fit and my belly is big and round but I’m not pregnant and I’m not letting anyone photograph it.

And I wanted my ankles to be healed so I could be like, “Hey, everything’s all set!”

Over the months I’ve gotten a few emails saying “What the hell’s going on, woman?” The first priority, then, is to update you on the ankle thing.

Last June, I reached a point with my ankles where I could not speak about them. I’d say that coincided with my referral to neurology. I had gotten so used to the pain being an orthopedic one that the mere suggestion that it was systemic or neurological brought immediate breakdown.

And let’s face it, I’d exhausted my brain and my heart by trying handle things myself, to get the “right” doctor and the “right” diagnosis. Calculating when I’d return to daily walks and workouts. Calculating when I could walk on the beach with my kids. That referral in June said one thing to me: You’ll never do those things. June, July, August and even parts of September? Pretty much a cry fest.

Those months brought many tears, and many medical tests. Getting through a battery of medical tests to arrive at a diagnosis is something that, as Americans, I think we want or expect to happen in a few weeks. It doesn’t work that way, of course. And the waiting sometimes hurts more than the physical pain we’re trying to diagnose.

In September, after all of my medical tests came back normal, I met with my neurologist. I came armed with my husband, a page-long list of questions, my fancy digital audio recorder, and a few Ativan in my system for good measure. I most wanted her to give me hope that I would heal and be normal again.

The neurologist believes that I suffered small nerve damage when I twisted my ankles multiple times. However, she could not completely rule out peripheral neuropathy, which may or may not improve and may or may not spread.

Then she gave me a pep talk about the body’s overwhelming propensity for healing.

Then she told me that I’m almost 40 and shouldn’t expect to feel like I’m 20.

I took a break from thinking about my ankles after that. And when I was ready, I got my package of records together and mailed it to Dr. Lee Dellon in Baltimore. He called me THE NEXT DAY and surmised that I had stretched my saphonous nerve. A nerve that with all of my googling I had never heard of.

Fortunately, there is a “Dellon Institute” about 15 minutes from my house. That doctor didn’t zero in on the saphonous nerve until I showed her in writing what Dr. Dellon had told me. So, she agreed to do a few nerve blocks to the saphonous nerve to see what happened. The second time I brought my kids so they could see me get a huge needle in my leg without even a wince. “Don’t forget, guys, your mom’s a ROCKSTAR!” They rightly impressed.

The pain relief I got from those blocks was enough that she thinks it’s the cause of my pain (diagnosis). I can either live with and medicate the pain or get surgery to kill the nerve so I have numbness in that area instead of pain (solution).

So, it appears that I have a diagnosis, and a treatment plan!

Next Tuesday, I see my neurologist. I’ll tell her about this peripheral nerve/plastic surgeons I’ve consulted get her take on the diagnosis and treatment option they gave me. I fully expect that the neurologist will disagree and that it will throw me into a bit of despair.

The thing is though, that since last fall, my ankles have slooooowly improved. Some days when they don’t hurt at all, sometimes I just feel pressure or heaviness there and then sometimes they hurt. But the slow improvement seems consistent with what I’ve heard about nerve damage. That it can heal but you measure your improvement in months and years, not days and weeks.

So, probably regardless of what my neurologist says, I will see the peripheral nerve/plastic surgeon again in the summer. We’ll decide if the pain’s still improving or not. Then, if I do decide to have the surgery, I will probably run everything by Dr. Dellon in Baltimore and have the surgeries performed by him early next year ...

… after I get my massage therapy license. I’m getting my massage therapy license!

School starts April 13, and I’ll finish up December 13.

It’s something I’ve wanted for a while. In fact, I remember some of the schools calling me back last spring and having to tearfully tell them I’d run into some health problems so I couldn’t do it.

Now, I’m doing it. Slow-healing ankles or no. I’m doing it.

Proof That I'm Getting Old. And Stodgy.

At the check out of my local grocery store last week, I noticed the latest TV Guide cover, featuring Desperate Housewives. More accurately, I noticed Dana Delaney's boobs and ass staring me in the face. A rush of indignance coursing through my veins, I grabbed the offending magazine and held it up.

"Isn't this a little ... much?" I asked the cashier and the bagger. Both female and past retirement age, I knew they'd concur.

"Huh?" said the cashier.

"Oh, I don't even notice those things," said the bagger.

"I mean, her chest is hanging out! I can see her butt!"

I flicked it with my finger for effect. "Are we so desensitized to smutt that we ..."

Blank stares.

"I didn't even notice it," said the cashier.

"Well, I'm sure my 8-year-old son would have, had he been here." I crammed the issue back in the rack, cover photo facing in. "On the magazine rack is one thing, but staring me in the face at the register? Geesh."

Then I grabbed my bags, said, "Have a good day," and took my oversized ass right out of that place.

Happy 39th birthday to me.

An Update

Thanks for all of your well wishes and prayers.

I wish I knew all the answers, but I don't.

The neurologist at Mass. General does not think that I have RSD/CRPS. She thinks it is a small-fiber polyneuropathy. I had a skin biopsy, which will show those small-fiber nerves, on Thursday. Next Thursday, I will have an autonomic test that will assess the functioning of -- you guessed it -- my autonomic nerves, which control the heart/lungs/sweating/etc.

If you're the praying sort, please pray that my small-fiber nerves are normal, and that my autonomic testing comes back 100% normal. Please pray that my pain will be cured.

At heart, I am a a journalist, a researcher. I gather information. Figure things out. Find the answers.


This has been hard on Brian and my mom. And me. I've scared myself thinking I have things I don't. Now, I know more than I want to know about what I may be facing.

This week has been hard. Brian has threatened to rip the Internet connection out of the wall. I'll be doing good, mentally, then I'll read something on one of the forums or break down and Google something and I'll be in tears again. Or the pain will flare, and my fear with it.


On the plus side, I'm getting closer to God. I've been saying for months now that I trust God, all the while trying to figure things out myself. I work this over and over in my mind until I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Last weekend I went to my Mom's and cried for 24 hours straight. I fell asleep crying and woke up crying.

There's no question. This is scary. "No cure" is a possibility. Pain meds forever. When I asked the neurogist if this will get better she in essance gave me "the hand." I need the diagnostic work up before we know anything.

God is working on me, helping me trust him instead of trying to figure everything out myself. I think I'll have an easier time learning to trust Him than to trust my doctors. But I'll have to learn to trust them too, for the most part anyway.

Thanks again for your prayers.

I cry out to the Lord and he heals me. PSALM 30:2.

Prayers Needed

I just wanted to let you all know what’s going on with me and ask for your prayers.

As you may know, I have had ankle pain since November. I have been seeing several orthopedic doctors. In April the pain spread to my other ankle. Now it is spreading up my legs and I’m having some symptoms in my arm as well.

On Thursday I was referred to neurology and pain management. It looks like the pain is nerve based and I may well have a chronic progressive pain condition called RSD or CRPS. There is no cure but if caught early it can be put into remission.

Please pray that I can get a proper diagnosis and that I will be cured completely. Some of my prayers have already been answered as I am seeing a top specialist tomorrow.

Thank you so much for your prayers,

Love,
Kris