This past week has been another learning curve; I’ve learned lots about myself, my condition and my son.
Last Wednesday my eldest son (Calvin, 16) was admitted to hospital to have an operation – (“lower spinal fusion with instrumentation and autologous ileac grafts” according to the consent form). It’s as major an operation as it sounds but I knew he was in the hands of one of the best surgeons so I wasn’t worried about the success of the operation. I was worried about how both he and I would cope with the before and after bits though.
I needn’t have worried about Calvin, he did extremely well, told me he loved me when he came round and declared himself “officially hard as nails” between doses of morphine. Physio started without delay and it was gruelling and painful but he did so well he walked out of the hospital 5 days post-op.
I was staying in accommodation near the hospital so was on hand most of the day and into the evening for Calvin, fetching Yorkie bars, copies of the Guardian and drinks of water. We chatted, mainly about politics, a little about trains and a lot about things to do when he was better.
This time we spent together, though marred by the after effects of surgery, was precious time. In common with most mums and 16 year old boys, we don’t usually spend a lot of time talking to each other- our exchanges are mainly functional “can you go to the shop for milk?” “yeah” “are you going to school today?” “no” that kind of thing. The conversations we had as he lay in his hospital bed were special and cherished; I’ve learned more about my son in 5 days than I think I’ve learned in the previous 16 years.
To cut down on travelling (especially as I can’t drive at the moment) I stayed in accommodation provided by the family support centre. It was lovely but not quite lovely enough to stop me surviving on very little sleep, I went home on Saturday night to get a rest. Once I’d got over the maternal guilt I had a lovely evening at home and returned to the hospital on Sunday morning relieved but not surprised that Cal had survived the night without me.
It had been a stressful few days and I could feel myself losing my grip a bit. It’s so difficult to articulate how I was feeling. I was agitated, restless, tearful and maddeningly tired from lack of sleep. The final warning sign was waking at 4am on Monday. I decided it was in my best interests and Calvin’s for me to head home as who knew what was coming. I’d spent the whole time at the hospital feeling a bit unstable.
19 hours later I was still awake and generally just going loopy.
I managed to do something I never would have managed to do a few months ago- I recognised it and dealt with it (sleeping tablets), 191/2 hours after waking up I was fast asleep.
I’m still feeling unsettled now, still restless enough that Lorazepam seemed appropriate today. Part of the problem is my ongoing irritation at living on the knife edge that bipolar can be. The toxic stress is inescapable and I am furious at myself for not being able to deal with it.
Stress wise there is a lot going on around me- the country has ground to a halt thanks to snow, the children are off school and we’re generally all feeling a bit fed up of each other. I’ve been in this situation before and coped fine so is it any wonder I find myself furious at my inability to cope without Lorazepam and frequent trips through to the bedroom to hide.
My new medication seems to be working, though it’s difficult to tell. I know I have a full body tremor so bad that hugging me is like holding a frightened rabbit. Drugs to combat the tremor are useless (unless blurred vision is what you’re looking for) and I have to avoid doing anything in front of others that involves using my hands. I struggle to even walk down stairs.
I’ve been thinking a lot about acceptance and recovery lately, just thinking mind you, don’t think I’m far enough out of denial yet to blog about it.