It was the second day in a row that I could not walk, not even from bed to bathroom, without several stops along the way (meaning every 3-5 feet) and a couple of "Hail Mary" grabs at furniture to remain upright. The pain has been indescribable. The depression -- describable, as mentioned above, but apparently something I'm not allowed to mention.
The only reason I have not committed suicide is my duty to Fred to leave him enough money that he will survive "in the manner to which he has become accustomed" -- almost drowning in poverty, but not quite.
As soon as I hit the mark, I'm gone.
This morning, I woke screaming. After sublimating the natural reaction to this level of pain, I did the coffee thing, the care-for-the-animals thing, then the special-care-for-the-animals thing -- known as Dobby Time. Then I managed to get my legs back in the bed, struggled to sit upright, grabbed the computer, and checked to see if my new ACA Marketplace Health Insurance company had responded to my frantic emails. Nope.
But YouTube notified me of a message from someone, so I surfed in that direction. It involved a pitch for a CRPS cure, about which I could get the bare-boned information if I paid him $349 for his personal years of research into the disease, and the one (I think he says "one," but maybe it was "several.") research article available about the "cure" he found, and that the rest of the world has been ignoring.
People have become angry with me for reacting with skepticism to the cures they offer. The group of doctors who wanted me to give myself Ketamine intravenously, at home, unmonitored, for $50 a week. I could pretty much pick the dosage. The pain management doctor who wanted to have "some ladies from my church" wrap me in herbs and bandages, and prayer. The player of the singing crystal bowl who induced bronchospasm with all the sage bundles she burned over me. The many nurse practitioners of Healing Touch.
Also worth mentioning are the times I was angry at being led along, or not meeting the criteria for treatment. Various clinical trials, a couple that I might have tried but was told by one of my doctors that he'd not treat me any longer if I did. Implantable devices that I cannot try because of my history of chronic bone infection at sites of implanted prostheses. (Thanks very much, St. Joseph's Hospital of Atlanta and Doctors Eric Carson, Steven Sween, Leslie Kelman, and the nurses in the ICU in May of 2002)
So this morning, I just cannot handle another "gimme, gimme, trust me, trust me..." routine. Here is the video, for those of you willing to (or desperate enough to) pay for information that is apparently readily available, but which we have all managed to overlook.
I managed a short nap after coffee (an idiosyncratic reaction?) and dreamed, once again, of being trapped in the elevator in one of the medical office buildings at SJHA with the aforementioned unethical Doctor Gods, an elevator that left me gasping because it was filled with the smoke of a sage bundle, and rushing to exit the cage of the elevator as soon as that prison slowed to stop at a floor, any floor, be it the entrance to Hell itself.
So, um, clearly I have issues. Those doctors represent fraudulent medical treatment, more aptly put as "failure to diagnose and failure to treat," threats (very specific threats), improper treatment, bullying, lying, failure to report a Sentinel Event, and the ruination of my life. I write that confident that the sentence is completely true and actually soft-peddles their roles in the reality of the first few years I had CRPS. The sage, my inability to breathe or speak? That represents what I know now was my stupidity and extreme gullibility. It represents the loss of my life's work as an educator, and the steady pay check with benefits that I enjoyed.
|Sage smudging, from Estrella Magick|
That ought to provide enough grains of salt for you to wade though... You're welcome. Excuse the self-pity. Excuse the desire to OD on insulin, fentanyl, methadone, percocet, tizanidine. Also, kindly overlook my catchy theme song of "Shoot me in the head / Shoot me in the head / Shoot me in the head / I'd be better off dead." As Dylan said, "I'm a poet / I know it / Hope I don't blow it." At least, I *think* that's what he said. He's actually declined in my estimation as I've aged -- I tire of guessing who he wants me to guess him to be this year. After spending so much time figuring out whom I am, I care less and less about his personas.
Love the music, though.
So here is Cure RSD / CRPS and his video, followed by the details he provided on YouTube, both uploaded yesterday.