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Stormy Shea : About My Recent Hospital Stay and An Old Story About My Medical Mishap
(I'm feeling optimistic)
I just got out of the hospital again. This time I was getting my medicine switched to something new called "Suboxone" a new pain management pill. I was so tired of 24 hour pain medication, and most of the short acting ones are only good for a few hours. It is hell having to be on medication 24 hours a day. In fact, I tried something else for a few months for a doctor who was prescribing a new medicine on people needing 24 hour pain killers. That was Avinza, 24 hour time release morphine, something that had never worked for me in the past in the hospital after a surgery anyway. I thought maybe the pills would be different. They were. I was sleepy but the pain didn't go away. I just felt funky all day and night. I never even smiled for the entire four months I was on them.
I didn't get to see my grandkids for the four months I was on them except for once. I fell asleep or couldn't do anything because I hurt too much to play or go shopping or anything with them. So, until last week, I tried those pills. Now, I am on suboxone, a new medication that helps you without the fogginess and wears off after a few hours. It has been used primarily in the US for getting heroin addicts off of drug addictions. I had heard about it from some recovering addicts once, but never thought I would ever need them for that. Now, they are using it to help people in chronic pain. So far, I don't know if they work all that well. They did in the hospital, but I didn't have to do anything but lift my breakfast try in the hospital. Life will happen now, and we will see.
I'm from Indianapolis. Born in 1953, I was a weird little girl, and I've been weird throughout my many adventures in lie. Now, I'm a smart, sexy and talented 55-year-old, and because I possess the wisdom of a 100-year-old ... you can have all the free advice about life, people, writing, politics or how to live through the hell of doctors and illness, both physically and mentally, let me know: I know a lot about that! I began going to doctors at the age of 3 1/2 years old until I moved to Arizona for the year at about 12 or 13 years old. The psoriasis went away there after I had been there for about 6 months.
Then we moved back home.
I'm the kid who never got to go swimming when parents saw me in the pool with their kids, I always got kicked out. Even at amusement parks and in some restaurants, I was told that they couldn't allow me to eat in there, and so I can relate to blacks who complain that they weren't allowed in a lot of places. It is humiliating. I grew up with a complex that nobody would want me in their houses or in any parks. Even neighbors didn't want me in their homes or playing with their kids. I was always missing school too. I missed 30 days in the second grade.
I could play more with other people's kids in the winter than summer because I was covered from head to toe in winter. Their parents forgot I guess when they couldn't see my legs and arms. I luckily didn't have them on my face or truck. They were terrible on my scalp too. In summer, my arms and legs were covered so much so that you could barely see anything but scaling, pussy, red sores. They itched, burned and felt like pins stinging in the summer heat in the summer, but under my clothes in the winter, it was almost worse from the clothes rubbing against them.
My story is too horrible to tell, but in the past nine years, I have been stripped of my clothes and my dignity ...by nurses, by doctors -- and finally, by psychologists, and ultimately the ever feared "psychiatrist" whose test results can put you away for good. I suggest that the "attorney general" check out the next group of "torturing doctors who enjoy driving the patients crazy first" Then they try and break you into believing you are crazy by lying to you, telling you "no more pain killers" because they (the team in the hospital who just happens to know you and hate you because they know you are going to sue them) think you may have addictive tendencies. That was just their way of getting me to do something stupid like go to a doctor with a bad reputation for writing pain medicine.
However, at 45 years old, and after a life of pain, I knew what I needed. My grandmother gave my darvons once in awhile when I had psoriasis so bad that I moaned and stayed home from school with my legs burning from using too much soap on my body and not rinsing well. That is what happens besides the pain in my bones from something else. My grandmother knew how sick I was and knew at 8 years old, I shouldn't hurt in my bones so much, but nobody knew what it was. Nobody ever knew that she started giving them to me back then. I started taking them when I was about 8 years old.
What was I supposed to do when I woke up around three in the morning screaming and moaning so loud that my neighbors complained? I ended up going to a lot of doctors, feeling like a drug addict and looking for a doctor who wasn't afraid to write pain medication for me. That is the worst feeling. Every reputable doctor at that time would not write prescriptions for me, and they wanted nothing to do with the girl who would probably try and sue the doctor who punctured my bowels, colon, and an artery during a laparoscopy. Of course, afterward, my primary care doctor told me he opposed it, but he opposed my smoking.
They stick together when they don't even like one another when it comes to treating someone like me. Doctors have always thought I was a cop because I never looked like an addict when I went to the doctor. I dressed appropriately because I had plenty of practice. My ears had been really bad all of my life too, so between the psoriasis and my ears, I was always going to the doctor when my mom could afford to take me. Many a night, I cried so loud all night with bursting eardrums in the winter.
I suggest anyone who doesn't want to be a human guinea pig for doctors with another agenda, whether intentionally or not, can ruin your life forever! And that is just what "one" doctor can do who is really on-the-ball, like the "Einstein Complex" scientific genius type. You know them. They are obsessed with research, and hoping to prove that they have found the miracle drug or the next "best" pain killer to get the state legislature to approve more use of for the disabled who need to work and cannot do it without strong pain killers.
You know, I'm a baby boomer, and I still never suspected the doctor who approached me to use me for a new drug trial on oxycontins -- back before anybody had ever heard of oxycontins. I should have known they were dangerous when they worked so well that I felt happy and didn't seem to hurt anywhere. I should have known that it was too good to be true. For most baby-boomers that would be like telling them that the "candy" shop is open. The only drugs I ever tried in the 60s were horrible and I hated them. I have always had allergic reactions to most pills and drugs. Pot is the only thing I ever really tried. It seems to help me now, but I never liked it for pleasure.
I did, however, love it when all the alcoholics stopped drinking in the early 60s and started smoking pot. They were so much nicer people then. I actually feared anyone who drank my entire life. I still do because they are so impulsive and either get stupid and repeat themselves or get violent and want to fight. So, other than smoking a little pot, I wasn't an addict before on any kind of opiates! What luck? I didn't like them either because I had to take them when I was younger for an illness I will discuss here.
You know, if were trying to get as much narcotics as I needed, I found out later that I was one of the only people who could get as many as six number 80s a day of something that drug addicts ended up doing and began overdosing on. I was in the original trial studies for oxycontins, and because I was trying to return to work, after being in bed for two years (after the laparoscopy from hell), I ended up hooked on them big time -- not because I wanted them, but because the withdrawals symptoms are terrible when you try and stop taking them.
It won’t enough to give those doctors the liberty to take my body from me, now I was giving my soul to them. And plenty of my insurance money, I worried about every doctor after that, but not really expecting my liberty away over my own body, mind, liberty, freedom and respect away in the process. It's really physical blackmail to tell you need a test for symptoms that didn’t even require a laparoscopy to begin with when you are a stupid patient who doesn't know any better. I've been emotionally blackmailed ever since I visited a doctor I had to pick from a book, and ended up butchered and ruined for life really.
Doctors now probe a scope into your uterus and try to guide it by watching a screen ... first into tiny, tiny fallopian tubes ... and then they don't have to cut you open so that you don't take so long to heal. I hear they want to use the "scope" method now for everything instead of opening you up, In a word, doctors are performing surgeries without opening you up -- but they cannot see or know what they are doing! At least it doesn't cost the insurance companies that much because you get invasive surgeries as an outpatient now. There are not supposed to be any scars afterward, but many women die from them every year. And as for scars, I have enough to prove that if something goes wrong, you will end up with a much worse scar than if they just opened you to begin with -- or be sent home to die of internal bleeding.
Hospitals are scary places to me now. I was awake during part of the surgery, and if you think it doesn’t happen then how do I know that they just turned up the music and said that nobody would hear me screaming now! I screamed enough all right, and I wanted to kill them for a long time afterward, but I couldn’t prove it, and I couldn’t sue because my primary care doctor covered them by saying that he "warned" me not to have the surgery.
He told the lawyer that he warned me because of my Lupus. So, why did I have it? Because the new GYN that I knew for about five minutes told me it was not dangerous at all. Remember, six girls died that year in the state of Florida alone in 1998, from that same procedure and he had only performed two prior to mine, according to the new GYN I found after that. This new GYN I found after that mess up saw how afraid I was to go and have the hysterectomy I needed in the first place.
I was still bent over from the pain I still had after two years from scar tissue. He sent me to an oncologist GYN who was an expert at fixing surgical mishaps, and had who had an excellent reputation handling really bad problems that women can have. He removed my uterus and ovaries -- and some of my scar tissue. Unfortunately, I have more again, and it still causes me pain today if I raise my voice too loud -- or eat something hard to digest. I’m going to get over the ruined body I have, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get over the mental problems and fear of hospitals and surgeries that I still have nightmares over.
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