Why I hate Oxycodone

Some people have told me that if I really wanted to sleep at night that I’d simply stay up all day.  As if it’s my choice or something that I’m not sleeping at night.  (And can you imagine not sleeping for 30 hours or more, while recovering from and trying to heal a broken ankle, because that is what those people were suggesting!!!)  I am going through withdrawals from Oxycodone; I took my last pill just one week ago.

I had surgery on the morning of July 26^th.  After surgery I was on morphine for about 48 hours.  Then I was switched to oxycodone, 3 – 5 mg pills every 2 hours.   By the time I left the hospital, 4 days later, I was taking 3 pills every 3 hours.  From there, over the course of the following 3 weeks, here’s what happened: once I felt I could handle the pain better I started taking less Oxycodone.  I went from 2 pills every 3 hours, to 2 pills every 4 hours.  Having made it to the 4 hour mark I was then able to start spacing them out more quickly.  Each day I added a half hour until I had pushed the doses out to the 6 hour mark.  At that time I started cutting out pills, once a day I’d take 1 instead of 2, until I made it down to just 1 pill every 6 hours.  Finally I started skipping doses, and pretty soon I wasn’t taking it at all anymore.

My dad thinks that I weaned myself off of the oxycodone too fast, which is why I’m currently suffering from some pretty extreme insomnia. 

But here’s the deal: I am super glad to be off those pills!  Although it was good to have them for pain relief, they made me super groggy.  I felt like a zombie, trying to peer through the fog of my existence.  I couldn’t hold a normal conversation, or stay awake when I wanted to.  All I was capable of was sitting on the couch watching TV, and that gets old fast.  Once I realized that I wanted to stop taking them, I did it as quickly as I could.  And I’m really happy to have my brain back… I just wish I could sleep at night.

Coming Full Circle

The last time I was here, in Michigan, I had a miscarriage on the plane ride over.  Well, actually, the miscarriage happened in one of the bathrooms at the Minneapolis St. Paul airport, but never mind about that.  It was my second miscarriage, and it really tore me apart.  I’ve never experienced depression like that before.  Even though once we arrived at the lake house we were in such a beautiful place, all I could do was lie on the bed and cry.  About 3 days into our visit, I emailed my shrink because I knew I couldn’t climb out of the hole I was in on my own.

So, this time – I’m here with my daughter.  Even now, I can hear her crying to breastfeed, her first nursling session of the day.  My husband is in the bedroom with her, trying to rub enough of the fog from his eyes to bring her to me.  I’m stuck on this couch in the living room, can’t go get her myself, because I have a broken leg.  It seems like every time I come here, there’s something wrong with me.  The last time I was here I was just so terrified I’d never become a mother.  This time, I’m injured because I’m a mother.  And I’m happy that it was me instead of her, of course.

Having a broken ankle is a lot harder than I thought it would be.  There’s a balance between needing to ask for help and not being a nuisance that I’m having a hard time finding.  I need, for instance, to bathe more frequently (otherwise I smell like a monkey!) but I feel bad asking Nick to do it – it just takes so much time and effort it seems like too much trouble, but then I’m so uncomfortable if it doesn’t happen.  I can make it to the bathroom by myself most of the time now, but it is a lot easier if I have help.  And I am not capable of getting any food for myself, or changing locations without assistance.  I have always had a hard time asking for help.  I’ve always wanted to be the tough one, the person that could take care of herself – if I was having a hard time, I didn’t want anyone to know about it.

Gratitude is a funny thing.  I’m happy that, from my command center on the couch, I can still see the lake.  I’m so grateful to have my daughter that it makes experiencing 2 miscarriages acceptable somehow.  I’m thrilled to have a broken leg instead of my girl getting hurt.  And I know all of this to be true, from a distance.  However, being in the middle of it is not easy. 

 

Today has been a tough day

I just really miss being able to stand up!  You know, going to the bathroom while balancing on one foot and a walker is really not very much fun.  And I miss standing and holding my daughter, rocking her.  Being able to sleep on my side.  Being able to go upstairs and cook, well, anything!!
The longer I sit here (at my desk instead of with my foot elevated on the couch) the more it hurts.  Blood is rushing down my leg, making my toes and ankle swell.  But I long to do something normal, if only for a few minutes.
In about a week we're flying to Michigan.  I'm terrified of the journey.  Actually, I was terrified before I broke my leg.  Having never flown with my own baby, I'm worried she's going to cry the whole time, that we're going to be 'that family' that annoys the heck out of everyone else on the airplane.  And now, I've got this leg to deal with.  It's so bad that I don't know if I'll be able to take care of her that much - my poor husband has to somehow keep both of us happy, and that's not an easy task in our own home, much less an airplane.
Well, I would write more, and definitely edit more, but this hurts.
I guess I'll keep trying to think positive... but I just feel like something has been stolen from me.  I read on mybrokenleg.com that feeling depressed is normal after a break like this...
Meh.

How breaking my ankle is going to make me a better blogger

Well, I guess it's all right there in the title.  On July 25th I broke my ankle.  I fell down the stairs while carrying my baby.  My mama bear instincts just took over, thank goodness.  It was the strangest thing - it happened so quickly and so slowly all together right there on the stairs.  I felt my body turning as I cradled my little girl to protect her.  When we landed I was much relieved to find that she was just fine.  Sadly, I'm not.  I won't be able to bear weight on my right ankle for quite some time.  

It could have been so much worse, that fall down the stairs.  Instead of breaking my ankle, I could have snapped my spine - just as easily and just as fast; and that would have been a permanent change. 

Instead of watching tv all day or sitting around feeling sorry for myself (although I must confess to having done some of both), from now on out I'm going to do my best to take this as an opportunity to do something new, interesting, and fun.  Whatever happens, it'll definitely be different than what I had planned.  (Cleaning my house, canning tomatoes, gardening...!)

I guess what I'm trying to say is that here's a new commitment from me to whoever happens to be reading this--- I'll try to share at least a few of the things that I learn and experience over the next year.

Wish me luck!!