Present Day, April 2nd, 2017

It started at 2 a.m. a few days back. March 29th to be exact. The pain came on a like a lightning bolt stabbing me in my lower back. Right side to be exact once again.

After roughly an hour of cringing, curling into a ball, and sitting on the toilet with the shower curtain wadded up in my mouth to keep from screaming and waking the rest of the house…it subsided. Until 4 a.m. When it hit again.

Needless to say, the Wednesday morning 6:30 a.m. alarm came far too early. Though fortunately for me that any other day of the week the attack would have hit in the midst of my launch of the 3 a.m. workday. I attributed both attacks to something I had eaten the night before. Maybe too much dairy. I have always had a rather sensitive system. And with the pain gone for the time being, it seemed like it must have been something temporary.

Until roughly 4:30 p.m. that same day. When it struck again. This time, harder than ever. This time, powerful enough to leave me vomiting into the toilet. This time, too strong to ignore. I had heard of pain that could make you throw up, but I had never felt it. Until now.

My wife and I attempted Urgent Treatment Center no. 1. A 90 minute waited with a way overcrowded waiting room. Especially for the display of pain and nauseau I was experiencing. Urgent Treatment Center no. 2. 45-minute wait (I’m not sure these people understand the definition of the word “urgent”). It didn’t take that long for them to notice my pain, and by the time I was escorted to an exam room they indicated they would never be able to run the tests needed or provide the pain medication necessary for the condition they thought I was clearly facing. Namely…kidney stones.

Off to stop no. 3. The Emergency Room. A few hours later, two shots in my ass containing anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, and more importantly – morphine! A CT scan, and sure enough, the discovery of an 8mm kidney stone which I was simply and initially advised by a nurse was a “pretty good size stone.”

While I awaited the doctor and further instruction, I found this on my phone indicating that my little 8mm gem fit the worse case scenario of both sides of the graphic –

The doctor provided further pain medications and a few other necessary prescriptions along with a follow-up appointment with a urologist within the next 48 hours to resolve the challenge I was facing. The next day we would discover that the referral was “out of network” and that an “in network” provided could not see me until the coming Tuesday afternoon. Yep, that’s right, six days from the initial attack (still 2 more days from today!).

These are the big things for normal humans that can become the unmanageable things by bipolar people. My wife joined me at 3 a.m. the next two days for work as the pain medications had me so drugged I could hardly stay awake while driving down the interstate. The same pain medications that can leave you plunging into the lethargy of depression, a state that I happened to have just pulled myself out of about 10 days ago (see recent posts). Not to mention the anxiety and unknown of when the next attack will come. The compounding stress and reality of mounting medical bills. The fear of exercise or strenuous movement that could once again dislodge the stone and send me into excruciating pain resulting in becoming stagnant for a number of days and giving inactivity the opportunity to dig its claws deeper into my life with weight gain and unhealthy daily life practices.

I don’t believe in god, and part of the reason is simply a hope. A hope that he or she doesn’t exist. Because if the mother fucker does he is an unrelenting bastard that can’t seem to find it within his means to just leave me alone for awhile. An abusive childhood. Teenage suicide attempts. An adult life battling bipolar. A heart attack two years ago. A mental breakdown last year. A multi-thousand dollar kidney stone trauma this year. I have to hope that there isn’t some being up there who could look down upon me, along with millions of others, and just say…“You know, I think he has probably had enough for awhile. Let’s just let him be.” Yeah, I’d rather just hope he doesn’t exist. Believe he doesn’t exist.

60 more hours to go. Hoping that a relatively tiny ass stone, though rather big ass in the perspective of its location, stays put and doesn’t send me back to the bathroom shrieking in pain. Back to the pain killers falling back into the haze. Hoping that this next life stretch can be navigated and maybe, just maybe a period of normalcy experienced.

Unless of course, this just is normalcy, in which case…well…my bipolar mind is best not going there.

Saturday, August 27th (Hospitalization Day 3)

Typically I prefer to refrain from all-inclusive terminology: every, none, always, never, everyone, no one…you get the idea. I’ll stick to my leaning in that regard while suggesting that it might work in this particular instance.

When it comes to individuals with certain mental illnesses, such as Bipolar II in my case, most of us of a fairly reliable list of warning signs that things are about to go really bad. In fact, to take it a step further, the list is usually not even a short one.

Which means that as I entered my third day of hospitalization it was no surprise to begin reflecting on what went wrong, how it might have been avoided, and discover a rather lengthy list. It flowed easily, and for each item on the list…there were plenty of warnings!

warning-signs

I have been told the “Big Three” for Bipolar are Medications, Therapy, and Sleep. Well, since I was not on any medication, or in any therapy (yeah, I know) that only left sleep or it was three strikes and I’m out.

For me, seven hours a night will generally cut it. An average of seven and a half is better, and under seven…things are probably going to get a bit dicey. Quickly. Especially over any extended period of time.

I wear a FitBit to try and keep me honest and make sure I’m somewhere close to on track. And I wasn’t. Over the previous month just under seven hours had slid. First to six-and-a-half hours. Then to six, but that was largely due to five-hour nights getting supplemented with 60 to 90-minute naps. By the week before my hospitalization, I was pushing almost five days at right around four-and-a-half–hours a day…total.

One of the reasons sleep makes the Big 3 is due to the chain reactions created by a lack of it. For me, headaches ensue. My temper shortens. My hands start to shake. Under stress, I’ll experience chest pains and shortness of breath (fairly alarming for a man who survived a heart attack back in early 2015). Nothing in life seems to bring pleasure or fulfillment. And all while the mind is racing, thoughts are spiraling out of control, and hope of things feeling normal is plummeting.

Let’s face it, no one likes to be tired. I get that. People with mental illness are not special in that regard. Here seems to be the difference as I have experienced it. Without the illness, finding a way to catch up (sleeping in on the weekend, taking a nap, going to bed early, etc.) can get you back on track pretty quickly. With the illness, in a very short period of time, everything can start misfiring to where lack of sleep isn’t even recognized as the problem. Even if you do see it and find extra time in bed, lethargy sets in with its best friend depression. Life falls into a quicksand. Sleep wise you feel damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

All the while our world’s shift. Rationality disappears. Very smart people can begin to lose their grip on very rational, even simple solutions to what is taking place. And the ability to write…to process…to even come up with the list I sat down and wrote above seems so very far away.