Guitars and Broken Hearts

Note: In hindsight, I did not tell this story very well because as I wrote it, I became enormously sensitive about anonymizing the identities of the musicians. This will be rewritten. I also don’t believe the story is over. 

I’ve been quiet.  But I haven’t been invisible.

This was my 10th April since Dr. Overinvolved sexually assaulted me and diagnosed me with cancer, since I survived medical error and anesthesia awareness to find the only person to not blink in the face of my trauma and to offer me a modicum of comfort was also my assailant.

I knew something had changed when I went home six weeks ago. I walked five miles to sit outside the clinic where these things all happened and I felt nothing. I knew the ghosts were there. They didn’t move, pester, poke or whisper a word in my ear. They sat quietly with me on the white brick planter outside the sliding glass doors of what is now an urgent care clinic.  Could this be what peace feels like?

The number 28 has had repeated significance in my life. I was 28 when this happened, I was biopsied on the 28th, and my surgery happened on the 28th.  On this year’s April 28, I went to a concert. All day long I thought about what happened 3,649 days before and how poorly I had lived those days. I wasn’t going to live day number 3,650 the same way. In order to function, I had to push down all that loss: the loss of my trust in health professionals to take care of me when I can’t take care of myself, the loss of trust in male physicians, the loss of trust of any logical order in the world, the looming sense of my own mortality, this feeling of being profoundly and irreparably damaged, the shame at what happened to me, for catching him, for staying, for thinking his good deeds outweighed the violation, for needing someone to be the “good one” at all, for keeping his secret, for never telling the entire story to my therapist because I knew she would report him, for not reporting him for so many years, for reporting him in a cowardly way, for the loss of opportunity and the slamming shut of so many doors.  For who I could have been had this never happened. That’s the biggest one. I remember that girl. She still had dreams and believed they were possible.

The concert I went to that night took place at a small theater in West Hollywood. I made the conscious decision to take off my armor, put my weapons down, and let the music take me where it may. No one sees me anyway so it seemed to be a perfectly safe place to put aside my defenses.  I was assigned to a seat in the front row and lost myself in the music, closing my eyes frequently and even openly weeping.  I remembered being that girl who had dreams when they played “Over the Rainbow” and for a fleeting moment, I felt like a young girl who still believed they could come true.  I’m pretty sure adult me didn’t have any dreams anymore, as my “dreams” boiled down to “make money and keep my health insurance.” I gave up on the dream of more schooling, the dream of meeting someone who could love me that I could love back, the dream of living an exciting and adventurous life, and so much more. It was all just gone.

I thought about that night I was alone in the hospital. It was too easy to close my eyes and see the dark room, the shadows slanted on the wall, the tray in front of me with a cup and a pitcher of water, the television on the wall, now dark, had once been alive with muted Sex and the City re-runs on TBS. A nurse turned it off when I managed to nod off for a few minutes. I wasn’t asleep and heard her hit the button. I opened my eyes when she left and I knew there was no way I would sleep that night, lest something else terrible happen to me.

I also smiled. A lot. It was a magical, wonderful night of music played by people that were in a band I LOVED. It was an amazing night, truly. I was also keenly aware of the other grief in the room with all of us; it was so utterly present that I could feel the guitarist’s energy when he was on the stage just feet from me, as if we were on the same frequency.  I found this sense of connection so distracting that I had to instruct myself to turn away from him. But I know he felt me too, as he frequently looked down or looked in my direction. It was cosmic and a little spooky. Without my armor, I think or I hope, I was able to project the love, the light, and the deep empathy I have for him and what he’s going through.  I know a little bit about what it’s like to have the sun rise on what seems like a regular day and by the time it goes down, your life as you know it has been blown to bits, never to recover.

As the concert came to a close, I was in the midst of a standing ovation when said guitarist was suddenly face to face with me. I was perplexed and then he held up his guitar pick. He wanted to give me his guitar pick! I lifted my hand and he pressed it into the palm of my hand with all of his might, then he gripped my hand for a period of time before slowly letting go and walking away. I’ve never been so pleasantly shocked and surprised and I felt this massive surge of electricity through me.

That did it. That broke the spell. All sorts of new portals have opened to me, but most importantly, my heart and my soul are open again. I think my armor and weapons are scattered about La Cienega Blvd as I haven’t worn them since. I’ve had numerous strangers tell me what a beautiful smile I have, how gorgeous I am, etc. That hasn’t happened to me in years. I don’t feel old anymore. I don’t feel anything for Dr. Overinvolved anymore and have zero desire to talk to or see him ever again. That is all just gone, over and done with. I am relieved to have something I want to be gone, finally disappear.

I’m coming back to life. After ten years of all this trauma just imploding inside of me. I saw so many therapists and none of them helped. I took anti-depressants that didn’t help. I starved myself.

I was also reminded of how much I love live music.  I thought it was just one band, but it’s not. It’s all of it. I’ve been to many concerts since and they are just a joy. A couple of times I’ve gone with the hope of seeing this guitarist again because I want to tell him, but I believe he already knows. A bit of a crush now too, but I know he’s just a messenger and not the message himself. I hope I helped him too.

I Ran and I Ran. I’m Still Running Away.

Last week was the appointment I have been afraid of for two, almost three years. The specter of my medical trauma, my anesthesia awareness cast a long shadow over every minute, including the drive in, the parking, the check-in and the waiting. The defense of my mortality and humanity was already being deployed by my sub-conscious. I was irritable with everyone and everything I encountered. I slammed the door in the stairwell as hard as I could muster. I tried very hard to not be nasty with the humans who were obligated to interact with me, so I was short instead. It was the best I could do.

I was nicer when the gastroenterologist entered the room, like that matters. I told her about the issue, that it started during my last bout with hypothyroidism, which was caused by the Levoxyl recall, a sub-optimal dose of Synthroid, and an endocrinologist who refused to test my TSH after switching brands (they are not all the same). I told her about my cousin’s cancer. I eventually worked my way up to disclosing why I had put this appointment off for so long and my fear of having a colonoscopy. Dr. Gastro asked me what happened. She seemed alarmed and asked, “What hospital was this?”  Don’t worry, it wasn’t this one!

Dr. Gastro ordered a smorgasbord of tests, including a “recommended” colonoscopy that would be attended by an anesthesiologist, which means a likely drug combination of propofol and fentanyl. I was almost okay with this, until I had the ordered abdominal CT scan that required IV administration of contrast. Now I am less okay with it.

The CT scan took place late that same night during LA’s first major rainstorm of the season. The parking garage was closed for the night, so I was forced to park in the street and walk two blocks, maneuvering  gutters overflowing and overwhelmed by the steadily falling rain. I was so tired. I had already cried in the car, sobbed on the 405, then again at home. All I did all day was cry out of fear and fatigue and loneliness. I checked in and of course, on this night, there was a man in the waiting room lacking social graces. He played music on his cell phone, games, took phone calls, stretched and groaned, burped loudly. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, then I wanted to punch him in his gross, unshaven face. Welcome to the Night Circus, I thought. His name was eventually called after forty-five minutes of grinding my teeth. I finished my barium drink. I wasn’t thinking about an IV as I hadn’t been explicitly told I was getting one. But I knew both types of contrast are used for abdominal CTs. It didn’t occur to me that this might be a trigger.

To bystanders, I handled it wonderfully. But in reality, I hung on to that appearance of normalcy by the tips of my ragged fingernails. The placement of it didn’t bother me. I didn’t look at it. It hurt, as they do. It hurt as the rad tech taped it down. It hurt when I put my arms over my head. Then the panic swooped in and grabbed me by the throat as soon as I felt the contrast hit my veins and that warm feeling swept over my body. Feelings of terrified helplessness reverberated through me. The thought, what if they kill me? went through my head. I felt like I was choking. Tears. I bit my lip. I had heart palpitations. I tried to give myself a pep talk in my head, just hold on. It was over quickly. I felt shaky as the tech had my sit up. He asked if I was okay and I simply said that the contrast caused a choking sensation. He mentioned that happens sometimes and commented on my looking away from my arm with the IV. I mentioned I’d had a bad experience in the past with general anesthesia.  I told my story for the second time that day, watching the shock register on his face, his eyes big.

This reminded me of the moments before my surgery. I had a gut feeling something was wrong when I met the anesthesiologist, but I didn’t act on it. I thought about the sensation of that first wave of benzos hitting my bloodstream, followed by the sensation of my consciousness slipping away, my eyes again filling with tears, and then waking up to horror and this massive rupture that has existed in my world ever since.

As it turns out, the CT didn’t show anything pathological and Dr. Gastro continues to recommend I have the colonoscopy. I have other lab tests to complete and if all that turns up fine, then I will likely schedule it. I guess. I will need to send a message to Dr. Gastro about IV drugs being a trigger so she knows ahead of time. I’m trying to find the balance between protecting myself emotionally and performing due diligence on this body. It would be incredibly reckless for me not to do this, given my history and now the family history. I’m just tired. So tired of trying to keep myself in check all of the time and grappling with this nearly every time I seek medical care.

This also prompts me to question my own story, the plot lines that I tell myself. I do not like my story thus far. I don’t want my health problems and PTSD to be my central storyline. I find myself angry more often than not. I want to leave this place better than I found out, to be loving, to be open. Sometimes I am able to chill, give people the benefit of the doubt, smile at the person who is in my way, but it never lasts before I swing back the other way. I cannot help but think of my upbringing, the coldness of both my parents, the lack of affection, and I see where my frozen core comes from. It’s also why I am alone. I need to start an outline that will change my story.

via Daily Prompt: Moody