Down and Out

The pre-dawn stillness is shattered by the sounds of a catfight on the front lawn and for several minutes it sounds like the end of the world.  It's an ungodly sound, cutting through the darkness like a knife, worse than fingernails on a blackboard.  It unnerves the dogs and sets my teeth on edge til I'm fully awake and trudging to the front door.  The door opening is enough to send them scampering off - I catch a quick glimpse of the Siamese from next door and the tail end of a tabby - a few final spiteful words are exchanged and then the quiet takes over.

It's too late and I'm too awake to go back to bed but more unfortunately, the shingles are also awake and screaming.  Four weeks after the onset, with people regularly asking me how I feel - my instincts are telling me to lie - no one wants to hear that the pain is just as bad as it was three weeks ago, no one wants to hear that I'm not over it, that I'm worried about nerve damage because while I can feel my skin with my fingers, I can't feel my fingers with my skin, no one wants to hear that I wake up each morning feeling that my whole right side is on fire.  No one wants to hear how exhausted I am from the pain, how depressing it is not to be able to see an end to it.  Easier to smile and lie, say Better every day, thanks!  One of these mornings, I tell myself, it's bound to be true.  One of these mornings, it has to be.

An hour or so after taking the morning meds and a supplement of ibuprofen, the pain backs off to where it's bearable.  I shower and dress and get ready to take on the day.  

It strikes me that a fair amount of the time, it's easier to lie.  People may ask how you are but a lot of them don't stick around to hear, especially if you're not getting better.  I have a suspicion that part of it is simple courtesy but that another part is knowing they can't fix it.  I'm convinced that we're all fixers at heart and we don't like being reminded that we're really helpless.

I paint my side with the betadine andI ease into sweats and a loose, light sweatshirt - wince as the fabric touches my skin and sends a quick dagger of pain into my side - I've been in the same clothes for the last week and only got to wash them this past weekend.  Dressing well has not been my first concern lately although to tell the truth, fashion has never been very high on my priority list.  When it doesn't hurt, it itches and I can't scratch because that sets the rash on fire.  Nerve pain, I've discovered, is very different from a headache or a broken ankle or a pulled muscle - it's inaccessible, unpredictable, too deep to reach and too shallow to be relieved.  It's as if a colony of gremlins with hot pokers have taken up residence beneath my skin - they're sleeping more these days but when they wake up, they wake up hungry and bad tempered and mean, chewing on my nerves with nasty little teeth, pulling at them with sharp claws.   The pain only travels so far before it reaches a dead zone, that space between my insides and my outsides, where the nerves are (we hope not permanently ) damaged.  It's that space that makes me want to take a hatchet to my right side and live the rest of my life crooked.

But again, these are not things anyone wants to hear so I put on a happy face, take a deep breath, smile.

Better each day, thanks!  I say brightly.

'Cause nobody loves ya when you're down and out ~ John Lennon