About fifteen years ago, I experienced an episode of auto-immune illness that puzzled a myriad of doctors and specialists, who never quite figured out what it was, but treated for the symptoms as if it were rheumatoid arthritis.
At the time I was stuck in a teaching job that I absolutely could not stand, working with people whose neuroses were even worse than my own. I was in a relationship with a man who has come to be known as the Soul Killer, and my youngest had gone off to the Enormous State University and become anorexic. Those were just the big visible tip of my anxiety iceberg. I was also trying to earn some extra money from a $2,500 a year stipend as the Freshman cheerleader sponsor. The job involved a minimum of three after school practices weekly and two football games every Thursday night. In addition you could depend on several phone calls each week from the cheer moms, who were brimming with good ideas, and there was a stunning week's vacation in beautiful Denton, Texas in July for cheer camp at NTSU. The only place hotter than Denton in July is the ninth circle of Hell. Did I mention it was hard to find a place to have a cigarette on the campus, in the dorm or away from the children?
While at Denton, I had my first flare up with the mystery disease. The joint of my left thumb turned violently purple and swelled to twice its normal size. I walked around for days with my prehensile digit stuck in a styrofoam cup of ice.
As the summer turned into fall, the swelling and pain began to travel around from joint to joint. Ankles, knees, wrists, everything got involved. I couldn't put a shoe on my left foot at one point and went to school with a pair of thong sandals which my principal at the time deemed inappropriate foot wear for the classroom. He didn't seem a bit concerned about my deformed ankle.
After many weeks, the Soul Killer finally hooked me up with a rheumatologist he called on professionally as a drug rep. She started me on a course of methotrexate, which ended my wine drinking career and eventually effected a cure for my swelling and pain.
I concluded quite independently of psychologists and mental health professionals in general that my problem had been caused by stress, anxiety, guilt, depression and a pervasive sense of abject failure at living satisfactorily.
Anyway, I made a number of critical changes in my living situation and remained swelling and pain free for many happy years after. Until this past month. Now it's back. My left wrist has a lump the size of a walnut that varies in size through the day. When it hurts, it hurts like the toothache. My left ankle also seems to be involved, but so far only in a minor way.
So, quite naturally, I'm beginning to investigate what the hell is bugging me so much that this is happening. There aren't any cheerleaders now, the Soul Killer is gone on to eff up other lives in other parts of the city. The anorexic child is a successful wife, mother and psychologist living her own life very happily. My job is getting better all the time, except for the pay, which looks like someone took a vow of poverty. But I don't have to struggle the way younger members of the faculty do.
The source of my anxiety is Mother. She is in failing health and I am watching her decline and her efforts to cope with pain. I'm scared and helpless to do anything to make this come out any other way than her leaving me here alone to go on without her.
My friend Sharon called me this morning and said that she sees me doing all that I can to cope and to meet Mother's needs, but she thinks that I'm trying to take on her pain, and I can't do that. She recommended meditation and seeking ways to put up a barrier (her word) to afford myself some protection from my subconscious. She's all about the homeopathic way and reeled off a list of stress fighting vitamins and minerals to pick up at the Natural Kitchen.
I felt a lot better after the conversation just because someone said I notice you're struggling and I give enough of a damn to say something about it. Thanks Sharon. Thanks for the shopping list and for caring.
Now I'm going to put my face on and go sit in Billie's chair at the Very Expensive Hair Salon, where I will feel like a pampered poodle for about two hours. All those damned essays I have been carrying in my tote bag since Wednesday will get graded during the fourth quarter of UT-UCLA.
At the time I was stuck in a teaching job that I absolutely could not stand, working with people whose neuroses were even worse than my own. I was in a relationship with a man who has come to be known as the Soul Killer, and my youngest had gone off to the Enormous State University and become anorexic. Those were just the big visible tip of my anxiety iceberg. I was also trying to earn some extra money from a $2,500 a year stipend as the Freshman cheerleader sponsor. The job involved a minimum of three after school practices weekly and two football games every Thursday night. In addition you could depend on several phone calls each week from the cheer moms, who were brimming with good ideas, and there was a stunning week's vacation in beautiful Denton, Texas in July for cheer camp at NTSU. The only place hotter than Denton in July is the ninth circle of Hell. Did I mention it was hard to find a place to have a cigarette on the campus, in the dorm or away from the children?
While at Denton, I had my first flare up with the mystery disease. The joint of my left thumb turned violently purple and swelled to twice its normal size. I walked around for days with my prehensile digit stuck in a styrofoam cup of ice.
As the summer turned into fall, the swelling and pain began to travel around from joint to joint. Ankles, knees, wrists, everything got involved. I couldn't put a shoe on my left foot at one point and went to school with a pair of thong sandals which my principal at the time deemed inappropriate foot wear for the classroom. He didn't seem a bit concerned about my deformed ankle.
After many weeks, the Soul Killer finally hooked me up with a rheumatologist he called on professionally as a drug rep. She started me on a course of methotrexate, which ended my wine drinking career and eventually effected a cure for my swelling and pain.
I concluded quite independently of psychologists and mental health professionals in general that my problem had been caused by stress, anxiety, guilt, depression and a pervasive sense of abject failure at living satisfactorily.
Anyway, I made a number of critical changes in my living situation and remained swelling and pain free for many happy years after. Until this past month. Now it's back. My left wrist has a lump the size of a walnut that varies in size through the day. When it hurts, it hurts like the toothache. My left ankle also seems to be involved, but so far only in a minor way.
So, quite naturally, I'm beginning to investigate what the hell is bugging me so much that this is happening. There aren't any cheerleaders now, the Soul Killer is gone on to eff up other lives in other parts of the city. The anorexic child is a successful wife, mother and psychologist living her own life very happily. My job is getting better all the time, except for the pay, which looks like someone took a vow of poverty. But I don't have to struggle the way younger members of the faculty do.
The source of my anxiety is Mother. She is in failing health and I am watching her decline and her efforts to cope with pain. I'm scared and helpless to do anything to make this come out any other way than her leaving me here alone to go on without her.
My friend Sharon called me this morning and said that she sees me doing all that I can to cope and to meet Mother's needs, but she thinks that I'm trying to take on her pain, and I can't do that. She recommended meditation and seeking ways to put up a barrier (her word) to afford myself some protection from my subconscious. She's all about the homeopathic way and reeled off a list of stress fighting vitamins and minerals to pick up at the Natural Kitchen.
I felt a lot better after the conversation just because someone said I notice you're struggling and I give enough of a damn to say something about it. Thanks Sharon. Thanks for the shopping list and for caring.
Now I'm going to put my face on and go sit in Billie's chair at the Very Expensive Hair Salon, where I will feel like a pampered poodle for about two hours. All those damned essays I have been carrying in my tote bag since Wednesday will get graded during the fourth quarter of UT-UCLA.
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