Interior Battle of the Bands

If I possessed simple Photoshop skills, I would draw cute little arrows pointing to the appropriate elements of this pictures. Since I have zero Photoshop skills, I will instead depend upon my command of the English language. Here it goes...

No, this is not some strange photo of Hurricane Gustav. It is a poor-resolution scan of my neck x-ray taken at the Granby, Colorado emergency room during my summer vacation. You can see my mandible (impressed yet? I thought not.) in the upper left hand corner. The vertebrae in my neck extend down, creating that cloudy arch in the middle of the picture. The problem? No one should describe their neck vertebrae as an “arch.”
When the doctor approached me with this x-ray she said, "If you had come in here as a result of a fall, I would immediately have you in a helicopter to Denver."

What?

She continued by explaining that those wishbone-shaped areas, the individual vertebra, should be in a direct line. As it is, mine are "30% displaced." If the scan was clearer, you could see the spinal cord running inside the vertebrae, which are supposed to protect it. In my case, they threaten to sever it.

Sever. My. Spinal cord. That would not be good.

I wasn't going to share this on my blog because, well, it's a little depressing. But I haven't been my usual witty self and realized it's partly because I've been expending so much mental energy trying to hide and stuff all the emotions that go along with this information, emotions like fear. Fear sucks the spit and vinegar right out of a girl.

Boy, you should hear the tapes playing in my head. I wish I could fire the DJ--especially since he's still using tapes instead of digital media. Ba-dum-dum. Like I said, I'm not my usual witty self, but I'm trying. The damn DJ plays over and over: What if I fall? What if I'm paralyzed? What will happen to my children? What about my marriage? What was that pain?

Of course, he plays loudest a night, when my thoughts are magnified by my solitude. Fear's music rings dissonantly in my mind against a back beat of regret: I should have been more aggressive. I should have eaten more healthfully. I should have INSISTED that I take care of myself first.

Oh, and don't forget resentment. I'm too ashamed to post those thoughts.

Hope and fear, both residing in the future, fight a mighty battle of the bands. Hope sings a you-are-not-a-victim song. Fear simply sings back, "Yes you are." I look up victim in the dictionary and it reads a person who suffers from a destructive or injurious action or agency. In this area of my life, I suffer. I could consider arthritis a kind of agency.

Hope: 0
Fear: 1

Hope falters a bit, then chimes that the antibiotics can still work their magic as they have for many people. Fear yells like a big-haired eighties band, "Yes, but they haven't yet. You have such severe, longstanding disease. What if it's too late—too late—too late—too late for…?" Hope’s melody reminds me that the antibiotics still might. Just might.

Hope: 1
Fear: 1

Fear chants, "What if you fall before you've arrested the disease? What if you become paralyzed? What if? What if? What if?" Hope reminds me that it hasn't happened yet. Healthy people are harmed and even die every day, but that doesn't mean we should all live in fear.

Hope: 2
Fear: 1

Fear pounds a heavy bass beat, “Yes, but healthy people don’t have outward signs or obvious precursors to potential harm.” That beat drowned out anything Hope had to say.

Hope: 2
Fear: 2

However, in her strongest voice, Hope has so far sung the final melody: There’s always Hope.

Hope: 3
Fear: 2

The final scores have been close lately. Sometimes fear even wins. At those times I take a sleeping pill to clear the cacophony.

My greatest weapon against the what-ifs has been to ask myself, “What can I do right now?” Sometimes the answer is rest. Other times I find the solution in calling a friend or getting out of the house. I’ve even found solace in a salad; every bit of nutrition I give my immune system helps. As long as I can find some means of giving myself a sense of empowerment, my Inner Victim loses strength.

I return to my antibiotic doc on September 12, when I intend to ask him to prescribe rounds of I.V. antibiotics to jump start the process. In the meantime, I'm taking my Reliv shakes (no, I don't sell them) , getting a membership to a YMCA that has a warm pool for arthritis water aerobics, and taking the supplements my doctor suggested. I even have plans to develop a system for tracking all my efforts so that I can look at my accomplishments when I become discouraged, but I haven't started yet.

I hope I've ended this entry on a positive note. I'm trying to remain hopeful and optimistic despite my constant apprehension. Here's to Hope and to the end of the Interior Battle of the Bands. Hear clinking of Reliv plastic cups here.