From Pain to Perspective

After I wrote that blog post on Friday, I had an appointment with my doctor, another with my traditional counsellor and the healer at Anishnawbe. I wasn’t sure I was gonna be able to make it, but after I published that post—boom. My stomach went down, it chilled the fuck out.

I spoke to my doctor and the first thing I said was, “Can I ask you something? Are you up for this? Are you gonna do this with me again for the next two years?”—I started crying.

She was like, “What do you mean?” I said, “Well, I had heart surgery two years ago, and we spent the whole two years with problem after problem, test after test. I had several trips to the ER, and now here I am again after the second surgery, and we already got a problem with my stomach.”

She said, “Yes, of course I’m here.”  I told her straight up, sobbing, “Because I don’t think I could do this without you.”

I can’t imagine going through what I’ve been through with a fucked-up, half-ass doctor.

My doctor arranged for a social worker to team up with her pharmacist within her clinic to coordinate getting me a CoaguChek device—an expensive device that lets me check my INR levels at home for the blood thinner I’m on— Warfarin .

She came to my house for weeks—made house calls. That shit is unheard of these days! She did that because she knew the shit I was up against.

I know there are plenty of doctors out there who don’t care, who are inefficient. I’ve met a few along the way. Their admins not doing their job properly—or at all.

Not in my court, thank God. Oh, I know all about the slack-ass admins. I’ve heard it all, straight from the horse’s mouth.

Honestly, if I had to deal with a fucked-up communication system with my doctor—any of them—I don’t know if mentally I would’ve been able to carry it out this far. Right now, I’ve got an all-star team. 100%

That phone game—having to call and call again to get shit done, just to see if it’s even been done—is fucking draining. Chasing down shit to make sure it’s handled—it’s what you have to do sometimes—most times, especially nowadays—just to get a simple fax done.

If you want answers, you gotta follow that shit up. You gotta chase that shit down, ’cause the system’s overloaded. You have to do most of the work yourself. That’s just the way it is.

I speak as a mother whose daughter had Crohn’s disease at nine years old and breast cancer at twenty-eight—not to mention my own battles. You can’t imagine how many doors I’ve had to kick down.

Luckily, I have a badass doctor—and ya, I’m gonna call her that—because she’s the real deal. Through and through.

My friend Tanya came over Thursday—checking in. I was in pain, bloated, and telling her what’s been going on with me. She’s like, “Why don’t you get that drink they give you for a colonoscopy?” Huh—and duh?! Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?!

Instantly I was like, “No, my doctor would’ve probably already suggested that.” But just as fast, I thought, You know what, it can’t hurt to ask. My doctor and I haven’t really been in touch for a few weeks—I just fucking suffered, hoping it would pass. I truly hate going to my doctor every minute with my shit, because holy shit, it’s a lot—and it’s always me.

That’s why I asked at the beginning of the conversation, “Are you up for this?” She never makes me feel like I’m a nuisance, nonetheless, at times I still feel like I am.

I went right back to when Kayla had her first drink for a colonoscopy at ten years old—I remember it vividly. How awful it was for her, and how awful it was for me to watch her go through it.

My doctor said hopefully it’s just from the opioid use, and eventually my stomach will bounce back—it takes time. I knew the opioids were gonna fuck with my stomach, which is why around six to eight weeks I thought about getting off them.

Then I spoke with Stacy, and she was like, “No, don’t do that to your body. Your body needs it. You’re going through this for the whole twelve weeks.” I was like, fuck that—let me take advantage of the pain relief I had available to me. This was no longer a six-week recovery. It was a three-month long recovery. At least.

I took morphine every single day, every night. Mornings were the worst.

It wasn’t for kicks—I needed it. I took it two to three times a day, then twice a day, then only once at night, until I just stopped one day. I’ve been off it now for three weeks, going on four. No withdrawals at all, actually.

A couple weeks later I weaned off the benzos—outside of my heart meds, I’m only taking Tylenol for headaches and a sleeper, which has been an ongoing issue for years.

Truth be told, my stomach was fucked from “Day One.”

She told me the drink would clear me out. It might be painful, but it might also reboot my stomach. I was fucking excited—we finally had a solution, or at least we were on the path to one. She prescribed me the drink.

I went to Anishnawbe and saw Melanie, who I hadn’t seen in about five months. I used to see her at least twice a month, talk to her weekly.

I just couldn’t talk to her for a while, and I don’t know why—I think I needed my head to be clear, and it wasn’t. Over the past four months, there have been so many drastic changes with me psychologically, figuring out what’s actually transpired in the past two years.

I found all the scattered pieces of me—and put them together. The puzzle is pretty much complete.

She and I had a really good talk—a next-level talk. I’m no longer at the baseline with my spirituality. I’ve advanced significantly in this journey—I need and want to do more than just burn.

The path I’ve been on since last year has been direct, straight, and steady-forward in a line.

These past few months, as strong as my faith is, I felt like I was slowly walking out of the lines, sloppily. I needed more. When I told her that, she said, “You do, because you’re here now.”

She gave me guidance on how to proceed to the next level of connection with the Creator. I was excited—into the toolbox it went.

Between Cynthia at Women’s College and Melanie and Pete at Anishnawbe—the empty toolbox I started out with is far from empty these days, to say the least.

I’ve learned so much from them, and whenever I’m with any of those three people, my body, my brain, and my soul go into total absorb mode. I leave every single time feeling fulfilled.

So after Melanie, I saw Pete, the Elder—I first saw him when I was sleepwalking and didn’t know who I was. I saw him maybe six times throughout this journey. Up until now, he’s seen it all.

I came to him empty, lost. He saw my desperation. I broke down in front of him many times.

When we did a ceremony, he really didn’t have a message from the spirits—they didn’t say much to him, accept for the first time which was “I’m on the right path—keep doing what you’re doing.”

He just kicked wisdom to me. He listened. And it was enough—I was grateful. Everything he said was useful, and every time I walked away, I felt stronger with my bag of goodies—traditional medicine.

Every time I walk into that building, it replenishes, rejuvenates, and restores me—in general.

So I had to go back to him. I had to tell him—I had the second surgery. He was like, “Oh yeah—yeah?” I said, “Yeah. I did it, it’s over.” Then I told him, “This is how it went down… I had to see you to bring this full circle, and well—here we are.”

I told him I’ve leveled up—that I’m not the same person who walked through his door a year ago. We had a great conversation, actually—well, I did most of the talking. Haha.

A ceremony took place—he told his assistant what medicines to put together for me. He said the spirits had told him a few things, which he then relayed to me.

They were so bang-on with where I’m at in my head right now, and where I’m going. A big smile came over my face. It was something I’d known for some time is going to happen, and he basically just confirmed it.

That right there gave me such peace of mind. It was guidance. You know, sometimes that’s all we need—guidance from the right people.

When I left and walked outside, waiting for my ride, the sun was just beaming on me, and all I could think about was how my stomach had chilled out long enough for me to have an appointment with my doctor, sit through two appointments at Anishnawbe—and the outcome was a total cleansing, physically and spiritually. Just what I needed. Faith restored.

It all aligned and came together in one day—and I was in desperate need of both. Melanie and Pete both said the same thing: with the new tools, when I pray, I need to ask the Creator. Key word there—ask.

For the past year, all they’ve ever told me was to give thanks, give thanks, show gratitude. Things have definitely shifted. I see it— even in my writing.

I went home and got dropped off at the pharmacy. I picked up a gallon-sized jug with powder in it, came home, filled it with water, shook it up, and put it in the fridge.

I had a brief visit with Kayla and Umbriel—they came over, which was great. Seeing Umbriel always cheers me up. Then Trent came home—the whole day was full of positivity again.

This post is the complete opposite of the last on I wrote—black-and-white, bipolar body. It just goes to show that in one day, everything can change.

My body cooperated. I got the help I sought out—from those three people—they are key to where I am right now. They’ve played a major role in my mental and spiritual well-being.

At 7 PM I started the drink. I poured a glass and drank it down—chug style—every half hour until 10 PM.

From what I read and what I was told, I should’ve had movement within the first hour. Six glasses in—basically half a gallon later—nothing.

I couldn’t drink anymore. I was filled to the brim. My stomach was tight. If I took another fucking drink, it was gonna come straight up my esophagus.

I reached out to Kayla and asked her what I should do. Kayla, having Crohn’s, is well-versed in this area, and she told me not to drink any more—“Just leave whatever’s in your body and let it do its thing. If you puke, it’s not gonna work.” Even when you know—sometime you just need to hear it, well I do anyway.

The pharmacist said I could drink half one day and half the next, but Kayla was telling me to drink it all at once. From what I read on Google, it also said to drink it all at once. So I was conflicted, but figured either way it would do its thing. I only drank half—that’s all I could get down.

So I went to bed. I woke up at 7 AM. My stomach was tight, swollen, hard, and painful. I grabbed my phone, my little airplane pillow to rest my elbows on my thighs, and the jug with a glass, and went into the bathroom.

I sat there for thirty minutes, pouring from the jug to the glass and down the hatch—I chugged the other half a gallon. I just sat there because I knew something was gonna happen. And it did, within the hour. It lasted an hour, and then it was gone. Seven pounds down. Yo—that’s a rack of double D’s!

The drink wasn’t the same as what Kayla had when she was ten years old. I know because I tasted it back then—it was worse. I guess over the years they’ve somewhat modified it.

Still, it had a texture to it, I think they were trying to go for a cherry flavor. Whatever the fuck it was, it made you shake your head after every glass. After the first glass—it’s fucking gross.

All I could think about was what my daughter endured over the years—the colonoscopy clean-outs, the months of not being able to eat. And here I was, doing the same damn thing.

When I washed that glass and put it away, I looked at it and said to myself—I don’t think I’ll drink out of that glass ever again. I tossed it.

It was all gone—the pain, the swelling, the bloating—all gone. Yeah, I cried. Hahaha. So many tears along this journey. Looking at my body, after everything it’s been through over the last three months—two years—it’s taken a toll. I’m changed yet once again. Physically.

My torso is probably one of the best features of my body. I’ve always had a lean, strong, fit, sexy stomach—yeah, I said sexy, ’cause damn fucking right it was.

I looked at my stomach today and, in my heart, I know it’ll never be the same. But once this is resolved and I hit the gym, I know I can bring it back—better than where it’s at right now.

I am one determined bitch. I’ll crunch the shit out of what’s left and resurrect my torso as much as I can. I got a redo, a second chance—and that includes my body.

Between the tape reaction, the swelling, and four months of fuckery—it’s done some damage.

To someone else, it probably doesn’t even look bad. But to me, it’s altered—another thing I’ve gotta adjust to. Yep, I cried again.

I reached out to my friend Jen—we’ve been back and forth since she read my post on Friday. I showed her the before-and-after pic of my stomach.

She was like, “Damn, girl, I might need that.” Haha! It was drastic—from looking eight months pregnant to completely sucked in.

A little background on Jen—once a bartender at Captain Jack—she’s been supportive of me throughout this whole journey, as she was in the midst of her own journey when I started mine. We have a lot in common—our past.

Both of us are on a healing journey. We struggle with different things, but we hear each other out, and every time we interact, I walk away with more knowledge and more wisdom.

She shared this with me: “I totally understand, hun. I love my back and stomach… we mourn together lol. Trying to look at my body like a warrior—it’s carried me through it all, and I’m thankful. So, learning to love my battle scars.”

I felt that in my soul.

It was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment—lying on my bed after a good cry. It totally switched up the gears in my head. I’m not quite there yet—my wounds are still very fresh, but to have that perspective, to twist it and look at it like that instead of feeling sad, is huge.

This is why people need to talk to each other—about the things that bother you, the things that hurt. You never know what’s gonna come back. You never know who’s got the 411.

Tanya put me onto the drink that cleaned me out and hopefully rebooted the natural wave in my stomach.

Jen gave me another way to look at my wounds. Instead of looking at them all sad and shit, I should be looking at them as a fucking trophy—because after all I’ve been through, at the end of the day—I am a fucking warrior .

I started out with nothing, and now look—I’m building a community.

Current situation: Terrified to eat. Yesterday I drank water, electrolytes, and coconut water—hydration was the goal. Around 3 PM I had some broth—my stomach didn’t like it. It bloated, and I felt like I was gonna puke.

Today so far—only water. I’m not even hungry—it’s been days, and psychologically I’ve adjusted. I made chicken schnitzel for Trent last night and didn’t even flinch.

I feel like after all the trauma my body’s been through—my guts exposed the way they were, along with the trauma caused by the Drano I just drank—my gut needs a time-out. So I’m giving it some time—how much time, I don’t know.

I’m going to try applesauce in very small amounts around 3 PM, or maybe 6 PM, or 9 PM—maybe even tomorrow. I don’t know yet, we’ll see.

I read that twenty-four hours is a sufficient break for your intestines. However, that’s for the average person—and I’m definitely not the average person.

The fight is tough, but so am I—and that’s why I’m still here.

And here I am again—sharing, caring, hoping there’s one thing in this blog you can take away and use…

Maybe it’s insight. Maybe it’s communication. Maybe it’s what a relationship between a doctor and a patient should look like.

Writing is a source of healing for me—and hopefully, there’s something in here for you too.