Reality check

I have been feeling cruddy this past while, exhausted and weak, generally run down. When I start to feel sick, my jaw pain tends to act up as well. I didn't really pay much attention to it in the past, but thinking back on it, this has been happening for the past few years.

I feel tired and run down, my jaw tenses up, I get a debilitating headache and can't go to work and do my job. More unpaid sick leave for Bella. Hooray.

Today, I got high on codeine to take the edge off the jaw migraines triggered by the overall cruddiness, spent the day in bed and went to see my physiotherapist late afternoon for my weekly appointment.

She asked how I was doing, so I told her, mentioning that I felt like some allergies were being aggravated or that I was coming down with a cold and that my jaw acted up whenever I felt this way.

She told me that when an area of your body is in pain for a long period of time and the condition becomes chronic, as my jaw likely has, the area grows extra nerve endings and becomes sensitive to histamines. So, if you do have allergies or are coming down with a cold, the pain in that area will flare up.

The news hit me kind of hard. I realized that I have been in pain for the past three years, and, as a result, this is something that I will probably have to deal with for the rest of my life, surgery or not.

In the spring when the snow melts and the mold underneath the banks starts swirling around, during cold and flu season, on windy days...I'm going to feel sucky. My jaw is going to act up. I am going to get horrible headaches, and I probably won't be able to go to work.

While I don't regret the surgery, and I believe that it has improved my quality of life (chewing, talking and singing) and saved my jaw from more damage in the future, the damage was already done before I went under the bone saw. And I'm going to have to live with that. And figure out how to deal with it.

Anyone have any thoughts on how to handle this situation going forward? (That don't involve allergy drugs, because those aggravate other health conditions I have.)

High...um...I mean "hi"

The last time I went to see The Jaw Master Grand Pouba of Physiotherapy with Thumbs of Steel, he put me through so much pain that I was gasping for air, crying, and doing Lamaze breathing to get through the appointment.

I wanted to hate him and swear I would never go back, but the dude's effective - he got my mouth opening from 30 mm to 36 mm in one session.

So, I just swore. A lot.

It takes months to get in with him, which gave me time to psych myself up for round number two. I decided that there was no way I was going into my next session sober. I was going to get very, very high on painkillers first. Fortunately, it doesn't take much to impair my brain function, which made me wonder a bit about the stability of my brain function, a thought that quickly disappeared with two T3s (codeine) taken in the waiting room before my appointment.

By the time they called me in, I was flying. An intern was the first one to see me.

Intern: The Jaw Master Grand Pouba of Physiotherapy with Thumbs of Steel is running a bit late, so I'm here to get you started. How are you doing today?
Bella: I'm doing GREAT!!
Intern: You certainly are chipper today.
Bella: I'm high. He's mean, so I had to get high so I wouldn't have to breathe like I'm giving birth, not that I know what it's like to give birth or anything, but yeah.
Intern: Uh...okay.
Bella: He makes me cry when he uses his Thumbs of Steel.
Intern: I have heard that before, actually. Though I don't know anyone else who had to get high before they saw him.
Bella: I'm special.
Intern: Yes, I can see that.
Bella: Codeine is goooooood.

By the time The Jaw Master Grand Pouba of Physiotherapy with Thumbs of Steel came in, I was even more far gone.

Bella: German orthodontic fetishists like me, you know.
Jaw Master Grand Pouba of Physiotherapy with Thumbs of Steel: [puts Thumbs of Steel in Bella's mouth and pries her jaw open]
Bella: You're mean. Codeine sucks!!
Jaw Master Grant Pouba of Physiotherapy with Thumbs of Steel: [cranks Bella's mouth even farther] Feel that? That's the end of your range of motion. Your mouth won't ever open farther than this because this is how far the bones will let me go. Let's just hold it here for a bit and measure it so we can see where we're at.
Bella: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Then I said a bunch of other weird incoherent stuff I don't really remember and accused him of various human rights abuses. All I know is that they were pretty amused by my altered state.

However, in the end, I discovered that the end of my range of motion is about 47 mm, and in our session, he was able to get me from 42 mm to 44 mm, so I'm pretty much there. By the end of the year, my jaw physiotherapy torture sessions will be a distant, painful memory.

The next time I see him is in December. Hmmm...I'm pretty sure I have some liquid hydromorphone left over from my surgery...

Where, oh where is George when you need him?

I am longing for my ex-boyfriend, George the Morphine Dispenser.

Sure, he was a fair weather boyfriend who was only there for me during the high-flying good times in the hospital, and then he dumped me and never called again, but I don't care. If I knew where to find him right now, I'd beg for him to take me back and I wouldn't even care if he cheated on me with all the other jaw surgery patients.

I'm not usually the kind of gal who likes to share her men, but in this case, I'd make an exception.

You see, I just came back from a physiotherapy session. Not just any physiotherapy session, but one with the Grand Pouba of Jaw Physiotherapy. The Man with Thumbs of Steel. The Jaw Master.

This dude is in such high demand that the only appointment I could get with him was 8:30 at night. And even then, I didn't actually get in to see him until 9:30.

Now, my regular physiotherapist is pretty hard core. She often makes me gasp and wince in pain, to which she responds, "That doesn't hurt. You just think it does" and continues merrily dislocating my jaw from the rest of my head.

But this dude, this dude took it to a whole new level. He used his hands to inflict more pain than this torture device ever could.

The pain was so intense, I had tears in my eyes, I was crying out, and I actually started doing Lamaze breathing to try and get through. Or at least I think it was Lamaze breathing. I'm not sure what I was doing. All I know is that it hurt. A lot.

Brutal. Brutal. Brutal. Medieval, really. I still can't believe it.

But the thing is, I went in there tonight only being able to open my mouth 30 mm, and I left with 36 mm to my name. My surgeon told me that if I could open 40 mm or more, he would be a happy camper. So half an hour of pain (and lord knows how I'll feel for the next few days) brought me to the point where I can almost open my mouth like a normal person.

I guess what they say really is true: No pain, no gain.

And in other news, I'm really glad I didn't get rid of those leftover painkillers from my surgery. I don't think I've been this high since the last time George and I made out.

And in unrelated news: Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Confessions of a morphine junkie

Perhaps Nancy Reagan was right. If someone offers you drugs, "Just say 'no', then go and tell someone you trust."

Of course, this is not what I did. I said, "Bring it on!" and became a morphine junkie within mere hours.

When I woke up from my jaw surgery, I was hooked up to an IV, attached to which were lines for fluids, antibiotics and morphine. The nurse soon told me that I was the one who would get to control the morphine flow. There was a little button that I could press anytime I felt too much pain, and that would release morphine into my veins.

Well, now, this was going to be fun. I quickly fell in love with my morphine dispenser. I named him George, cuddled him and considered leaving my boyfriend for him.

Oh, George. We were meant to be together.
Let us never part.

Anytime there was even a smidgeon of pain, I pressed George's button religiously. Hey, he was there, right? And who wants to feel pain, anyway? Plus, it felt goooooooood.

But, as with anything gooooooooood, there were some downsides to my relationship with George.

Take, for instance, one of the big things that we take for granted: going to the bathroom.

The first time I had to pee after my surgery, I went into the bathroom and sat there for a really long time, trying to pee. I knew I had to go, but it wouldn't come out. I ended up having to push it out in spurts for about 40 minutes until I was done. (Too much information, I know.)

When I saw the nurse next, I told her about the peeing drama and said, "That was really creepy. What the heck was up with that?"

She explained that it was one of the side-effects of the morphine - inability to control the bladder sphincter. Nice. But that wasn't enough to make me give up my love affair with George, that's for sure. So it would take me a bit longer to pee. So what?

But it got more interesting. One night, I felt like I was peeing, though I was pretty sure I wasn't. So, I dragged myself out of bed and went to the bathroom, sitting there for another 40 minutes until I was done, then went back to bed and passed out.

The next day, I went to the bathroom for another 30 minutes (I was getting a bit better at it by this time) and looked down at the floor. There was what looked like dried pee on the floor in front of the toilet. I stared at it and tried to figure out how it had gotten there and who it could possibly belong to. I had visions of some creepy old man breaking into my private room with the express purpose of peeing on my bathroom floor.

When I got out of the bathroom, I saw one of the nurses take the disposable pad off my bed and say discreetly, "I'll just change this for you."

Hmmm. Okay. Well, that's nice of her, I guess. I went back to bed. Later, I noticed a few nurses get a bucket and discreetly mop up the bathroom floor. "There's some pee on the floor," one whispered. They discreetly looked at me and then looked away.

Why are they looking at me? I thought. It's not like it's my pee or anything. Why should I be embarrassed?

I was still working on my creepy old man theory. But I couldn't figure out how the old man had managed to pee on the pad I was lying on without me waking up to see him. I guess it was my pee after all. Unless....maybe it was aliens!!

Probably not. But it's a theory I was willing to investigate further.

A day later, the nurses told me they had to start taking me off the morphine.

"But I need him!" I exclaimed.

They explained that I had to go home soon, and I couldn't take George with me, so I had to learn to manage the pain without him.

Nooooo. Please don't take George away! We love each other!

As you can see, I was very upset about this new development. I alternated between trying to cut back and pushing George's button for "old time's sake."

However, as I cut back, I began to realize how much of a junkie I'd become. Sure, I liked George and all, but I didn't need him, like I had previously thought. Also, the less I relied on George, the easier it was to pee, and that was no small mercy, because my stomach muscles were killing me from all that effort. (Another thing about George that I realized later on: when you're on morphine, you no longer poo. It took me five days before I could go again. Now that's creepy.)

Clearly, this was a co-dependent relationship and I needed to get out. I asked the nurse to remove the IV.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "If I take it out, you can't have any more morphine."

"Yes, I'm sure. George and I are through."

It was nice while it lasted, George, but eventually, we all have to return to the real world.