Chronically Stimulated
I was a happy go lucky girl in her thirties with the lifestyle of my dreams, the perfect job and perfect group of friends and family... when illness struck. After two years of trying every kind of treatment available, I was introduced to the spinal cord stimulator.
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These words are mine, these thoughts are mine, I have not been led
These are things that stay with you long after you are dead
Why this pain, so devout
I'm no pulpit I make no call
This worship always so cold and cruel
This is it, the sermon over
Lay me down surround by clover
There's no way out, but through that field
No shepherds there will have me yield
I want no part, I have no faith,
Can't feed pretense for other's sake
It is that bad
It's worse than that
All light has left, there's only black.
And another Post Script
By the way, I'm no longer just a portal for infection... I am infection. Well, my face is anyway. I have to take yet another course of antibiotics. Just another piece of evidence to support my conclusion really.
Post Script
Some lovely readers have asked for instruction on how they might subscribe to this blog. All you need to do is fill our your email address in the box just to the to the left of the very top post. At the top of the box it says, "Follow Chronically Stimulated by email". Do that and you'll have me forever, you lucky devils!
Oh, and one more thing, I know of course that portal was used in the Harry Potter books, but I rather meant wizarding in an Enid Blyton kind of way, rather than truly wizarding... hmmm perhaps next post I'll write in a different voice...
I was in Tasmania recently. Partly it was wonderful, I laughed like I hadn't in a long time, and I saw one of my best friends whom I hadn't seen in such a long time. But partly it was awful, I cried a lot. I cried because of the pain. I cried because of the things I could no longer do. I cried because of the things I could not hope to do. The weight of such realisation sure produces fat tears.
We visited my friend and her beautiful family, and despite how I was feeling, we had two jolly evenings together, and it was wonderful. We visited the Salamanca Markets too, and found an amazing artist named Sarah Millicent Elliot who produces a fantastic range of whimsical art based products- prints, brooches, hair ties and the like. I was drawn to this picture like a magnet, I think because it feels like me... slightly odd, and hanging on by a thread.
I'm sorry folks.. Or folk, my dear readership of at least one. I've been away, and while some of that was rather jolly, now I'm not feeling so great. I have quite a number of almost finished posts, and if I can move myself into action, I will get them up soon. I'm just not sure how to move myself into any motion right now, even a forwards motion. The weight of being ... ugh.
I'm sure there's song lyrics which should go with this.. More soon, perhaps.
While some of you have claimed it for years and years, now it seems the the Council agrees with you:)
At least I'll get to the store ahead of you, well, maybe.
I've been silent because my chest pain has been back with a vengeance, keeping me from going to sleep, keeping me from staying asleep, stabbing and relentless, like my heart is covered with a deep rooted infectious scab that's being ripped and torn apart. Eeeuuwww, while that was really disgusting, it's actually quite an accurate description.
- First of all, I get to go to the head of the line at airport security, no security sensors for this Sambot.
- Secondly, I get new jewelery, my new ‘NO MRI’ bracelet is on its way. Although I have a card for my wallet stating that I have a stimulator, and that I'm not to undergo MRI, or walk through security sensors, apparently, paramedics look for jewelery, and not through peoples wallets for little cards with instructions.
- And third, I present to you, mah reachin' stick!
In more depressing news, I discovered last night that I shall never trampoline again. 'Tis a sad day indeed.
Until today.
Today was a day that dressings were changed, and I thought I’d duly grab the opportunity to capture the moment, and the scarring, for time immemorial.
I will save ye all from the fate I have suffered. For it seems that there is truly no end to the indignity, nor to the hardship that I must endureth. I’M HIDEOUS!!!
Reviewing the photos, particularly of the implant scar, gave me that feeling one only feels when one has been sick in one’s mouth.
On the upside, I'm shuffling a little faster.
Instead, I bring you this delightful, and un-nauseating, picture of our doggy. You are welcome.
I thought maybe I'd share the items that come with being part cyborg. One is never quite alone while being chronically stimulated. Euuwww, does that sound rude?? hmmm.
Of course there are all of the internal parts, the wires permanently affixed along the spine and the dastardly nerve, and the rather too large magnetic base device, in my rather too large, ahem, base. And then, there are the carry-on items. (complete photo below). The programmer itself actually resembles an old blackberry.
My lovely technician has set parameters having consulted with me, and if you look carefully at the picture, you can see I’m at the upper end of those parameters. This is likely attributable to my chest infection making everything so much more painful. It’s likely that we’ll have to have another session in a week or two once I’m disease free to set new parameters.
The techs control everything from their own stims and ipads. The parameters they can set, and therefore the possibilities, are endless- it is just phenomenal.
The little black square in the right corner at the back of the picture is the magnet to end all magnets, it’s why I harbour a desire to be called Magneto. If for some reason the programmer won’t work, you can hold that magnet up to the base device, (read my butt), and it will turn the stimulation off.
At the moment, it won’t turn the stimulation on again, but they are working on that capability too. I was forewarned I might a feel a buzzing sound, or a feeling like a jackhammer, or something like a TENS. I feel none of those things. Sometimes, especially if I sit up or lean forward, I feel a slight flutter in my chest, but amazingly, most of the time, I feel nothing at all.
Love it.
And the young lady cried and cried. A thousand treatments were tried, over, and over and over again. And there was no skipping, or dancing or delighting through the days, or through the nights.
And over, and over again, this pattern repeated. And the young lady felt alone and without hope.