Sometimes It’s Easier Just to Write About It……

In my first blog I mentioned that I was re-admitted to hospital about five weeks after Miss Five was born, but this time to have my pain symptoms investigated and very hopefully, managed. Not so long before that, I had already tried presenting to my local public hospital, but finding nothing that they could immediately treat, discharged me home with a referral to the pain management team. However, my pain continued to escalate, to a point where I even made the decision to return to the hospital where I had given birth so very recently. I knew I stood a greater chance of being admitted there than in the public system, where patient flow is a greater issue due to the large amount of admissions on a daily basis. I underestimated however, the effect that returning to that same hospital would have on me. The familiar sights and smells (even down to the smell of the hand soap) only served to remind me of how significantly my life had changed in that short space of time.

Have any of you found it difficult to talk about those moments of trauma? It might be when your symptoms first started or when they escalated to unspeakable heights. Perhaps its when you realised you could no longer look after your children like you once did or when you were admitted to hospital. I found it hard to dwell in those moments and talking about it didn’t feel like it truly did it justice to the memory of it. So, I started writing about it (of course!). I wrote about it from a third person perspective, which allowed me the small amount of mental distance I think I needed to revisit those memories. I still flared writing about it, as I often have a visual way of recalling memories that creates a sense of immediacy with that particular moment, but the sense of achievement afterwards was phenomenal. It felt real and raw and through my character “Erin”, I felt that I could create the context needed for those around me to understand what I had been through. From what I’ve read, I believe this style of writing is called “auto-biographical fiction.” Some of the characters or events may be altered, but it is inspired by the author’s own experiences. So when you read this, remember I am Erin, Erin is me.

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The metal and glass doors of South Bay Private Hospital whooshed quietly open. They had decided to avoid the local public hospital-last time it had been too busy, and she suspected they would just discharge her home with instructions to wait for the pain team to contact her. Home no longer felt safe. She didn’t expect the emergency department to be busy-if the small number of cars in the carpark outside was any indication. She looked around and noticed only one patient in the corner of the room, cradling her arm. The room had a warmth to it, with its 1990’s blue and cream décor, but it did little to settle her nerves. Dressed in the loosest and warmest clothes she could find, to avoid pressure to her stomach and the nerve pain from temperature fluctuations, she gripped Ben’s hand tightly as they approached the triage desk. She dully described her symptoms, already skeptical that they would allow her admission and wary of their judgement. But she couldn’t leave the discussion with the staff to Ben alone. He was uncomfortable around hospitals and was prone to forgetting important details. As a social worker, she was well versed in how to provide the most efficient and relevant medical history. She just wished she was on the other side of the desk and not the patient. They looked up as a wooden door inlaid with a reflective mirror on its top quarter, opened and another nurse ushered them in. Reciting her symptoms again, she automatically held out her arm as they took their standard observations. Blood pressure, oxygen levels, temperature. All fine. She was surprised when they showed her into one of the emergency bays, with the promise that a doctor would see her soon.

It was a decent sized room, rectangular shaped and measuring about 4×3 metres. It held only two chairs and a long recliner bed which was covered with the obligatory waffle-weave white blanket. The beige walls lacked soul as many rooms in the emergency department often do-plastered with posters about proper hand hygiene and CPR procedures. A short, dark haired nurse with a round face continued the rotation of nurses as she tried-and failed-to place a cannula in Erin’s left hand.

Erin shrieked as an intense pain shot through her hand and left arm. The nurse looked up sheepishly, muttering “sorry” softly. Erin recoiled as she approached her for the second time, withdrew her hand and pushed her body closer to the wall.  Her screams were now hysterical. She did not notice when Ben fled from the room and returned shortly after with the doctor following close behind.

“No more pain! No more pain! No more pain! No more pain!” she sobbed hysterically, twisting her body out of reach of the nurse, of Ben, of the doctor. They all seemed determined to hurt her. She continued screaming the words as they held her down, now a perverse sort of mantra. “No more pain!” 

A slow, sluggish “oofffffffff”, escaped her lips as she immediately felt the effects of the morphine that they had injected her with. She had never had it before and whilst outwardly it dulled her reactions, it did little to lessen the anxiety that swirled inside her. She felt trapped. Trapped inside her own body, she thought, as she drowsily laid her head on the pillow and dozed off.

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So, maybe if you can’t talk about it, try writing about it. It doesn’t have to be on a public forum like this. You might want to start by writing in a diary/journal to help you explore or come to terms with some of your more difficult times. Maybe explore your dry and dark humour by creating fibro memes. Or feel free to comment and tell me what you find helpful.

Thanks for reading. Catch you on the next post.

xx Jen – The Girl on Fire.

jenthegirlonfire

Hi! I’m Jen the Girl on Fire. Diagnosed with fibromyalgia in 2016, I started this blog as a way to raise awareness about fibro, share helpful tips and tricks and to allow others around me a space to contribute and share their own experiences with this condition. I am a mum, a wife, a singing and dancing enthusiast and fibro blogger, working hard to achieve new dreams despite a chronic condition.