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trixiedragon · 5 years

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this is going to get personal, so...

a year ago today, May 12th, was the day before Mother's Day, 2018. coming home from whatever we were doing that Saturday, while getting out of the car, my mom experienced some back pain which, we would eventually discover, was from a second compression fracture in her spine. (she'd previously had one like... several years before.) it took a long time, though, to realize the extent of the problem, and then even after that, coming to a decision on how to cope with it... during the entire time she was in pain, and getting weaker and weaker. because of the back problem, we didn't realize how weak she was getting, because the back was making it super hard for her to move at all... we even got to a point where she moved into her bedroom and decided that she wouldn't attempt the stairs until she was doing better. however, that became untenable... on July 4th, she wasn't able to support her own weight at all, and there was much drama and confusion (partially bc it was the holiday) so on the 5th, she was SUPPOSED to be going to the doctor anyway, but she also had an in-house physical therapy appointment scheduled, so we talked to the physical therapist about how she couldn't stand at all, and other problems, with our main concern being... how do we get down the stairs to get to the doctor? and the PT said, you know, you should call for an ambulance and go to the emergency room.

and she was right. there, she was diagnosed with an abscess in her stomach, and while treated THAT, they found cancer in her liver, but they were like, well we can't do anything at all with that until the abscess is cleared (oh, um, an abscess is essentially an infection in the gut... her colon had perforated and so there was an infection in the space between her organs that would have to have cleared up before anything could even be considered for treatment of anything else). she was in the hospital for 12 days, never really improving much but having some better times than others. on July 15th, we were waiting around to get transferred to a rehab facility, if you can believe it, but mom was sleeping the whole time really, and her pulmonologist (the best doctor of like the 12 working on her) decided that her breathing was a concern... she was transferred to the ICU. that night, my sister and my brother-in-law and i stayed all night. my sister's kids (all grown) were there for various times, and my brother and his family came, too. my mom hadn't woken up, she wasn't intubated per se, but she had a machine attached that was basically forcing her to breathe. i remember talking with my sister-in-law about the Decision that was coming, and how much that helped.

fortunately, though, the next morning, mom was lucid for a stretch. i had just gotten home with the intention of taking a shower and eating something when i got the call, so i came back. my sister had apparently called my out of town brothers, too, so they could 'talk' with her while she was awake. when i got there, i was able to ask her what she wanted. she could only blink in reply, but her mind was there, she understood me. we told them to take her off the machines and we put her in hospice. a real blessing was that the hospice was actually IN the hospital, so she only had to be carted to a different room, not transfer to another location. immediately, the wonderful wonderful hospice people took care of her, and so on July 16th, after having been in pain since May 12th, she was finally not in pain. not awake either, but not in pain. that day was surreal, but beautiful in its own way. my sister and her family were there, my dad showed up (he and my mom had a bad relationship, but he was still there so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ) my brother and his family came. we shared stories, we had meals in the room with her...

that night was hellish, in many ways. my sister, my dad, and i stayed to be with her at all times. there were two recliner chairs and a pull out love seat kinda bed. i doubt any of them were comfortable at all, but the chair i was in was miserable and there was zero chance i could sleep. my dad was in the other chair, and he got up and left at some point, i guess like 4-5 in the morning, and i had no idea why, but like. that's my dad for ya. earlier, we had asked how we would know that she was, well, actually dying... the hospice people were like, don't worry, we'll let you know. they did check on her like every hour or so during the night, and early in the morning, just after six, they did poke me and tell me that it was nearly time. i got my sister up, and... well.

i told my mom that i wished i could hear her voice one last time. she then heaved this heavy heavy sigh, let it out slowly.... and never inhaled again.

it was a blessing that her death was so, so peaceful, but it still kills me how unfair it was that she had to be in so fucking much pain for so, so long beforehand. she'd been having lots of trouble with mobility for a long time, but i was able to be with her to make things work, but for two months... and ofc, my own mental condition hasn't been the best for a while, a long while, so from when she was injured until she went to the hospital, and even some of the time in there, i was at the end of my rope in so many ways. my sister would say that i took such good care of her that we didn't even realize how bad things were, but i don't know. i feel like maybe i might have noticed some things sooner if i had been yanno... less... barely keeping things together but...

ultimately, it wouldn't have mattered. whether we knew sooner or not, the thing is, with all her scans, from earlier in the year bc she was a cancer survivor, so she had routine scans, and everything with her back, nothing was detected until it was basically explosive, so... the weird thing about it all is how fast everything went, while at the same time, how long it all took. like, there was so much pain for so long, and yet in the end, what killed her worked so damned fast.

anyway, it's mother's day today. last year, we couldn't celebrate mother's day because she was in too much pain to do anything. this year, she's with her own mother for the first time in 50 yearsish, and (not to be dramatic and shit but) i'll never have a mother again. everything we went through last year... the visits to everykindadoctor while we were trying to make her back better, the times we had to call my sister's family for help, the times we were holed up in 'camp' in her room hoping to get better... relying on grocery store delivery and amazon prime to get things we couldn't go out for... it was such a... stark and crystalline time in my mind, and it's so weird that it was just a year ago. like, not even a full year ago, the beginning of the end was just a year ago. so i decided to write it out, i guess. i'm still trying to figure out what to do with myself now.

life is... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#personal #tumblr is a dying platform but whatever #i guess there's some catharsis in writing it out just #who knows

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arc-rchk-blog · 7 years

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FICTION: Immutable

By: Leon Lee

I remember being told that I was a perfectly normal child, or at least, that’s what the doctors said.

Average in all respects from the time I was born, although there was one who’d said differently.

Being the people that they were, my mom and dad had heard the man out, but hadn’t really listened. To them, he was one dissenter among a crowd of trained doctors who said otherwise, and they took me home as soon as they were able to.

That was what they told me, anyway.

They asked a lot of questions when I brought it up, and they seemed pretty shocked. Kids generally didn’t remember things from that far back, but I remembered a few things clearly.

A lot of non-sequiturs, but the main thing I remembered was a calm, measured voice. My parents said it might have been one of the doctors in the hospital, and that I could have developed some memories in the womb.

They might have said I was a normal kid, but I really wasn’t that normal in the head.

I wondered why they hadn’t believed that doctor. Still, I assumed they had their reasons, and I never bothered to question it.

At least, not until I turned thirteen.

If I’m honest with myself, I still can’t remember how it happened. It was a regular day, I know that much, but I ended up injuring my hand somehow.

Naturally, my parents freaked. It bled a lot for a small cut, and they kept asking me questions.

“Are you okay?! Does it hurt?” That, among all sorts of other things. I insisted I was fine, but they kept fussing over it, even though I’m older now, and damn it, I could take care of myself.

Guess that’s the downside of protective parents.

That was when I first thought something might be up, since I hadn’t felt the injury. Still, I hadn’t thought it was a big deal. Just a high pain tolerance, maybe?

Never mind the fact that I’d never been injured before, and probably couldn’t have any kind of tolerance for pain as a result. That was perfectly logical in my head back then.

The next time I got injured, I was fifteen, and working with chemicals in the school’s science lab during class.

Some moron heated their beaker too much during the experiment, and the glass shattered everywhere. Well, more like exploded everywhere, but I’ll try and be nice.

The people closest to the explosion took the worst of it, as you’d expect, but I wasn’t too far away myself. I didn’t feel anything though, so I assumed I was fine even as we rushed them to the nurse and called the hospital for the more serious glass wounds.

So when people started crowding around me, prodding me and checking my pulse and heartbeat, I got pretty confused.

“What’s going on?” I asked the nurse. In response, she pointed downward, and I folloe to find a long shard of glass poking through my left side.

It had gone clean through the lab coat I wore, and I just stared. There wasn’t much blood, but the sight of it was fairly shocking.

I was still stunned when they pulled me into an ambulance and rushed me to the hospital in case it had pierced anything important, like my liver or gut.

I don’t remember much of the details of what they did, but I remember one thing clearly. They kept asking me if I was in much pain, if I felt anything wrong and how bad the pain was.

My answer shocked them pretty badly. “I don’t feel anything. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

Judging by the way they acted afterwards, I think they assumed I was dying. Oxygen mask, brain scans, people poking around the gash in my side, the works.

Eventually, they had to admit I was fine, besides the fact that I was weaker than usual from blood loss and surgery to remove the glass splinters.

That was when I learned that actually, something was actually pretty wrong with me.

————————————————————————————��————————————

“Congenital analgesia,” they told me, having checked with experts and others to confirm their suspicions.

It’s rare, and only about one in a million people are born with it in the world. Lucky me.

Anyway, what it does is simple: I can’t feel pain. Not at all. Doesn’t affect the rest of my senses at all. Sounds great, doesn’t it?

Well, it isn’t.

It means that I can’t tell if I’m injured or not, or what hurts me.

The doctors were amazed that it wasn’t discovered earlier, since most discover it when their kid starts teething, since they chew their own fingers and tongue and can’t feel the pain even when they start breaking the skin.

Of course, me being me, my child self had never apparently felt the need to chew on myself while I was teething. My parents had sheltered me enough so that I’d never been significantly injured, but that didn’t change the matter.

They told me I had to learn to be vigilant, because if I wasn’t, this could easily happen again, and even though I can’t feel the pain, I’d feel the effects of whatever was causing it soon enough.

That was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I like to think of myself as a free-spirited person. I’ve never really been good about abiding by strict rules and guidelines, and I remember taking the opportunity to escape them whenever I could.

I liked to live by my own rules, which thankfully didn’t translate into a disrespect for authority, and just showed itself in my unfettered attitude and approach to life.

What they told me I had to do was give all of that up, and I remember having a hard time accepting it at first. My parents were especially horrified by it, and refused to let me out of their sight for a while.

I didn’t take that well either.

I didn’t want to have to change my life for fear of something that hadn’t been an issue until now.

I was stubborn and foolish and ignorant, and it took a return trip to the hospital for a shattered shoulder before I accepted what they were telling me.

I started holding myself back from what I would normally do. Exercised some restraint for once to counter my own nature.

I was careful and watchful and a million other things that I just wasn’t, and I hated it.

And then, a year later, I heard that there was a potential cure in the works. Could you really blame me for having jumped at the news?

I started looking into it, and found out that one of the people involved in the project had their offices fairly close to me.

Doctor M.G. Jones, reputed therapist and doctor, specialises in birth disorders and defects.

I made an appointment as soon as I could, and on a cold Wednesday in March, I walked into his office and knocked on the door of his consultation room.

I heard a chair scrape against the floor, and then the door was opened by a man in a ruffled suit.

He scanned me briefly, and I caught a faint glimmer in his eye before he spoke. “Ah, I’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.”

I complied, and found to my surprise that his office was…...well, not an office. It was more like a casual room, with sofas, a coffee table and warm, gentle lighting. There was the obligatory messy desk, of course, but otherwise, it was nice.

I must have looked just as surprised as I thought I was, because the doctor grinned at me as he closed the door and moved beside his desk.

“Not exactly what you were expecting, is it?”

“No,” I answered truthfully. “I thought it would be a lot more clinical.”

He chuckled. “Most people think that way, but generally, I’m not that kind of doctor. Sometimes I am, but that’s for a different time and a different place.”

He settled himself in a padded oak chair behind the desk. “So, what I can do for you today?”

“I-” I stopped. Something was bothering me.

Something about the glimmer in his eye when he’d looked me over.

One of the first things I’d done when adapting to my condition was learn to be vigilant. For better or for worse, that included being vigilant of other people, and it was a skill I put to use now.

I looked at his eyes and his hair and his face, noticing the brown, slightly greying strands and the slight frown he was wearing as he noticed my confused expression.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, and my attention turned to his voice, and the manner he spoke in…

Something clicked. “I know you, don’t I?”

His frown deepened, which I couldn’t really blame him for. It was a fairly odd question, and damn it, my mouth was going to get me thrown out again--

“In a manner of speaking, perhaps.” I sighed in relief. At least he wasn’t dismissing me out of hand, and it made me wonder what he dealt with on a regular basis if that wasn’t the oddest thing he’d heard.

“Sit, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, indicating the armchair in front of his desk.

I complied, and he drew a bit closer. “I’ve had a lot of patients, so we may have run into each other long ago. But where do you think you know me from?” he asked in a careful tone.

I thought about the calm and measured voice, digging through my memories for the details.

“I….think my parents talked to you around the time I was born,” I said haltingly. I could remember that much, but the memories themselves were pretty fuzzy.

“I think it had to do with my condition,” I added, “but I think I explained that when I contacted your-”

His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Congenital analgesia, correct?”

I nodded, and his eyes widened slightly in understanding.

“That explains it. Yes, I do know you in a way, then. I was your parents’ primary medical consultant prior to your birth, though I’m surprised you were able to recall me.”

He pulled a decanter off the shelf, and poured himself a glass of water. “Would you like a drink?” I declined the offer politely, and he set it down.

“There was a discrepancy in your genetic data and your parents’ genetic records that led me to believe you might suffer from congenital analgesia, yes. A mutated gene that previous individuals with your condition possessed. But your parents and the other doctors disagreed with my analysis at the time, which I can’t blame them for. I was significantly less well-known at the time-” he smiled ruefully at this, “and my analysis was mostly speculation.”

He drank from his glass. “I kept tabs on you for a few years, but there were no suspicious incidences in your medical records, so I let it drop pretty quickly. I assumed I’d been wrong, and it’s not exactly the easiest thing to explain. I must say, it’s nice to know I wasn’t wrong, but in this case, I wish I had been.”

I nodded slowly. So many things were starting to make sense now. “In that case, I’m doubly glad to meet you, Doctor Jones. Thank you for…..at least trying to warn my parents about the possibility.”

The doctor half-grimaced. “Well, I have the “Do No Harm” oath to account for, you know. I uphold that as best as I can, but it can be frustrating if your advice is ignored entirely.”

He sighed. “But enough of that talk, I’m starting to feel egotistical. You came here because you believe I can help you with your condition, yes?”

I nodded.

“Before we start, I need to know exactly what you think my help will do for you. I don’t want to give you false hopes before we begin, and I need to make sure you understand exactly what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the most positive start,” I mused. “But it’s still a start.”

“I think you can help me figure out how to avert my condition. Make it so I can actually feel pain and not get myself unknowingly injured as often.” I said simply.

“That, I might be able to do,” he said, and my excitement must have showed, because he quickly hastened to clarify. “It’s not guaranteed, and there’s a fair chance it could leave you in worse shape. Do you still want to hear about the procedure?” he said seriously.

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

He grinned, and some of his tenseness seemed to evaporate. “Then let’s get started.”

—————————————————————————————————————————

The good doctor explained how my condition was believed to be a result of certain mutated genes in my body. One from each parent(thanks for that), and combined, they had the effect of ensuring that the pain receptors in my body were never turned on. Still there, still intact, just…sleeping.

All we had to do was trigger them.

Unfortunately, that seemingly simple step was a lot more difficult than it sounded. Surface-level pain didn’t seem to work, and Doctor Jones was reluctant to try electroshock therapy on me without knowing what my limits were.

A week turned to two, then three, then a month.

It’s been three months since I went to Doctor Jones’s so far, and we haven’t gotten too far on the whole “feeling pain” thing.

It was frustrating, but honestly, that wasn’t the hardest part. That came from having to deal with my colleagues and the like, who just couldn’t understand why I would want to feel pain. It left me pissed whenever someone questioned it, and it strained my temper to the edge.

Something had to give, and that something was me. “Isn’t it a good thing?” a junior coworker asked, hanging in the doorway after I’d dismissed him. “To not feel pain?”

In response, I reached for the medical kit on my desk, and pulled out a long, thin needle that I sterilised with rubbing alcohol.

He winced when the needle slid easily through the upper skin on my forearm, and I watched him impassively.

“That’s what it’s like,” I said coldly. “Now imagine what it would be like if that needle happened to go through something more vital, like an artery or a vein or the important stuff in the back of your head. Imagine not being able to feel any of that, not even knowing what’s killed you or scarred you or ruined your life.”

“That’s what it’s like.” I motioned for him to get out, and he did so hurriedly. I sighed, rubbing my eyes tiredly.

He hadn’t deserved that. He’d started recently, he’d just been curious, but he’d been the unlucky last in a long line of people who I was sick of justifying myself to.

The needle was an afterthought by the time I remembered it was there, and I pulled it out swiftly, carefully.

Crimson blood welled from the small puncture, and I wished I could feel the sting for the umpteenth time as it trickled down my arm.

—————————————————————————————————————————

It was midway through the fourth month when we finally got something. Having exhausted all other options, and with my willing consent, Doctor Jones had elected to try and use selective electrical and hormone-based stimulation.

The whole thing went more quickly that I’d thought it would.My skin was still tingling lightly from the electricity, and Jones looked at me expectantly when it was done.

“Anything?” I pinched my forearm, feeling a resounding sense of disappointment when I only got the usual feeling of skin against skin.

I shook my head, and he slumped slightly. “Needle?” I asked, and he handed me one, having cleaned and sterilised it beforehand.

I slid the needle in expectantly, ready for the disappointment I’d get when it did nothing as usual. What I didn’t expect was the brief sting that I felt as the needle went in, and I pulled it out with a jolt.

Jones watched me curiously, a conclusion dawning in his eyes. “Did you….” He left the sentence unfinished, and I turned to him slowly. “That stung.”

Naturally, I left that session excited, and was back pretty quickly for another. Call it strange if you want, but pain was interesting to me. It was fresh and new, and it meant the end to a life of tiptoeing and constant watchfulness.

By the third session, we’d determined that the treatment hadn’t been fully effective - it wasn’t a complete sense of pain, just stings and a warm feeling against my skin.

It was still something, though. It was getting stronger and more pronounced.

When the knife slipped from my fingers in the kitchen at dinner, I almost relished in the sting of the cut it left along my hand.

At the fifth session, Doctor Jones stopped me on the way out. “Would you stay for a moment, please?”

I was a bit confused, but I sat all the same, and he settled himself next to me. “What is pain to you?” he asked, his tone low and serious.

It took me longer than I thought to give him an answer. “It’s….interesting,” I said, chewing my lip thoughtfully. “It’s something I’ve never felt before. It’s odd, definitely, but it’s good. It means I don’t have to live with an eye on my surroundings at any waking moment.”

Jones had been slowly relaxing as I spoke, but a frown crossed his face at my last two statements.

“I can understand the sentiment,” he said, “but you need to remember that ultimately, what we’re doing here is to help you feel pain, not seek it out. Pain is still pain. It’s good because it lets you know that something’s wrong, and you need to find a way to fix that, but it’s not something you go looking for.”

Looking back on that day, I really wish I’d taken his advice to heart. He deserved better than that from me. He’d earned that much, at least.

By the tenth session, Doctor Jones seemed satisfied with the progress we’d made. “You’re just like anyone else now,” he said, offering me a smile. “You don’t need to worry about your condition anymore.”

I thanked him. I shook hands with him. I left him. That was the last time I met Doctor Jones.

My life took a different turn after that. I finished a lot of things I’d had to stop doing, did more things I couldn’t even think of doing before. I remade myself, remade my world.

But I never really lost that sense of rebellion, that free spirit that I’d buried inside me. It just changed a bit, made me something of a thrill seeker. That’s probably why I eventually became a police officer.

Action with purpose and pay and duty. A lot of rules, but they were simple ones, and easy enough to work within when I needed to.

That’s probably what led me to the situation I’m in now.

It was a cold night in December when we got the call about a break in at the bank.

A night guard had spotted a suspicious group approaching, and he got a call through.

Enough to tell us that they were after the gold that had recently been deposited there, and that they were well-armed before the sound of gunfire cut him off.

Given that the gold would have been shipped out the next day to a more heavily secured location, the department had suspected something from the start, and they’d had people stationed nearby.

My team was the first on scene that night, and when we arrived, we were greeted by a hail of gunfire.

We avoided what we could, but hits were definitely coming in, and we had to bail from the car. My partner grunted as he dropped to the ground, and then-

Shots rang out, and I saw red splash across his leg and his side. He howled in pain, and I knew I had to help him. Or rather, I was driven to. Morality and all that, you know.

I dived out of cover, firing wildly. They ducked for a few seconds, and I threw my body across his to cover him from shots, then dragged him back behind my point.

He groaned, and I hushed him quietly. “You’re gonna be okay, partner,” I said firmly, moving from my cover to fire a few shots before coming back to him. “You’re gonna be okay.”

He nodded silently before his eyes closed, his chest slowly rising and falling. It took another ten minutes for our backup to arrive, and another five for us to subdue the gunmen after that.

Paramedics were on the scene in moments, and I guided my fallen partner to an ambulance, ushering him into their care.

He stirred faintly as they laid him on a stretcher, looking at me with bleary eyes. “Thank you,” he muttered quietly, and then the gratitude in his eyes turned to horror and he grabbed the medic’s arm.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, rushing over. “Look!” he said, pointing at me, and then the medics were all over me, fussing and prodding, trying to force me into a stretcher.

I didn’t feel anything wrong. I just felt tired, more so than usual, but I had just been in a gunfight. But I met my partner’s gaze, and followed his horrified eyes down to my chest-

I stopped. There were holes in my uniform. Small, round holes, and a scarlet stain slowly spreading over my chest.

I’d been hit.

“Can you not feel it?!” my partner asked frantically, his own injuries for the moment. I shook my head numbly as they carried me to an ambulance, a doctor already frantically calling ahead.

No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel it at all. No stinging, no burning, none of the throbbing that I’d come to associate with pain.

Only a slow, spreading warmth across my chest. Nothing else.

Nothing at all. And that was perhaps the thing that scared me most as darkness began to crawl over my vision, the world growing dimmer and dimmer until it faded away completely.

#ignorance #diesease #painless #hurt #character death #cop

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