How dare insurance not cover my specialists

March 27, 2018

24 years. If I’m remembering correctly, I have had gastrointestinal problems for 24 years.

First it was ignored. I didn’t think to tell anyone. And I didn’t know that diarrhea wasn’t normal, that not pooping for days at a time wasn’t normal, that nausea and pain weren’t normal. So I suffered in silence.

Then I saw a doctor who wasn’t helpful. I drank prune juice for the constipation and that got me through the worse of it. Sort of.

Another doctor said I had IBS and gave me a prescription.

Years later I went off gluten, then a bunch of other foods. That helped a lot. The episodes that had been coming more frequently backed off. I no longer found myself in the fetal position from gastrointestinal pain 3-5 times a week. Now it was only 1-4 times a month. Only. Hmm.

The problem was, the episodes continued, and my emotional response to them got worse. I found myself thinking more and more often about how I would prefer death. I only thought that way in the middle of the episodes, when I am already in too much pain to seriously consider killing myself anyway, but still, that’s not good.

I never think about death when I have joint pain, even though that pain is much worse. There is something about the nausea that triggers these thoughts now.

Recently I had an episode that was especially bad. I called a friend and neighbor, who came right over. But even his dog, who he kindly brought, wasn’t enough to help me. I sobbed while curled up on the floor, unable to sit up, unable to think clearly, but knowing I needed to not be alone. Eventually the worst of it subsided. But it was enough.

After that, I finally decided to pay the money for the stool test that had been recommended to me. When I saw my doctor the next week, I was shocked to learn that the test was actually covered by insurance! Wow! I took it home, read the instructions, and realized I needed to go off of a couple of my supplements for 2 weeks before I could take the test. So I waited. And waited. And finally it was time, but my joints were acting up and I just didn’t have the mental bandwidth to manage the pain and the test at the same time.

And then, finally, I took the test. For 3 days I scooped poop into a cup. Joy oh joy. But I did it.

It took time for the company to process the test. Then more time for my doctor to get the results, and for the results to be sent to me. But now, finally, months later, I have the results!

And I have no fucking clue what to do with them.

Some aspects of my gut are in balance, others are not. My doctor was honest: there was nothing he could suggest except to take a probiotic (which I already take, but which I had to stop taking for several weeks before the test) and so he wanted me to see someone with more expertise. I appreciate his honesty. That’s why I see him.

There’s just one problem. He recommended 2 different practitioners. And neither are covered by my insurance. At all. Not one penny.

So now I’m considering paying. The one who looks more promising based on her experience is $217 for the first visit and $188 for each followup. I have no idea how many visits I’ll need.

I have the money. And to be honest, if I’m going to spend money, this is a good thing to spend it on. I save as much as I can these days, but really, why am I saving it? To take care of myself. And if I can fix this problem, avoid these episodes from now on, why wouldn’t I do it?

So once again, I am going to pay out of pocket for my healthcare. My insurance is fabulous when it covers my care. But when it doesn’t, I question what is wrong with our system. No one would question that I need help. There is obviously something very wrong. I have limited my diet, tried pills, and followed doctors’ orders. And yet, I still have episodes that have me curled on the floor thinking that death might not be so bad. I need help. And I am so incredibly lucky that I can afford to pay for it.

What if I was one of the ones who couldn’t?

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The things we do for our health

February 26, 2018

As I sat on the bathroom floor scooping poop into a plastic cup with a wooden stick 2 hours ago, I thought about how some people can go their entire lives without ever having to do this. Lucky them. I’m not so lucky.

I really really really didn’t want to do a stool test, but much more than that, I really really really couldn’t stand to keep having these episodes. I can handle the gas, the bloating, the constipation, and the diarrhea. I don’t love them, but I can handle them. But I can’t handle the nausea. It just does me in emotionally.

I have had these kinds of episodes since my teens. When I removed gluten and corn from my diet in my early 30s, they became much less frequent. Instead of 2-4 times a week they were *only* 2-4 times per month. Still, that’s far too often. The symptoms changed, too. Some got worse and some got better. And over time, I accepted it, to a certain degree. At least it was less often, right?

The thing is, the nausea, the fatigue, the rest of the symptoms all come on together. I never know when it will happen. Is it my diet? One night I feel fine and another I’m a mess, even when I ate the same thing both times. Maybe it’s something else? I have tried diets, so it’s time for the next step.

Someone suggested this particular test to me. I asked my doctor and was shocked to learn that insurance will actually cover the cost (a rarity for many of the tests I ask for.) His office gave me the kit, and I put it off.

First I needed to do an adrenal test – the fatigue was a more concerning symptom. Mentally and emotionally, I could only handle doing one at a time. It took a few weeks before I could schedule that test, since I had to change some things about my medications to prepare for it.

I gave myself a week, then decided to do the stool test. I read the instructions and learned I had to be off probiotics for 2 weeks before the test. I stopped taking probiotics. 2 weeks later, I was sick. I waited. I finally felt better but my schedule was a bit busy. I knew I needed to be home and not rushed for this. My schedule cleared and I went to take the test. I read the instructions again and saw that I had to be off another of my supplements for 2 days. I went off those. I felt sick again. Then if I did the test, I would finish on a Saturday, and it has to be mailed Monday-Friday, within 24 hours of finishing. I waited a couple more days.

FINALLY it was time! I was nervous and not wanting to do it, but I did it. Because I had to. Because I need answers. Because each time I have one of those episodes, I start to wonder if I would be better off dead. The only times I feel at all suicidal are doing those episodes. I don’t know why. They last for hours that feel like weeks, but never more than a few hours. The pain can be so much worse and last for so much longer, but it never makes me feel that way. These episodes have to stop.

So I did the test. It was a 3 day test. For 3 nights I had stress dreams about the test. The first day I realized it wasn’t fun, but not nearly as bad as I’d expected. But still, I had the dreams. They woke me up at 5:15am today. I want to believe it was worth it.

I finished the test just a couple hours ago. The samples are sitting in my refrigerator (carefully packaged, of course) and ready to be mailed when go out this afternoon. And then I wait. And wait. And wait. It will only take a few weeks to get the results, but it will feel like so much longer.

After many months of procrastination, then another 6 weeks of mostly legitimate delays after I received the kit, I finally feel SO CLOSE to potentially having some answers. I don’t want to hear I have parasites or infections to deal with, but those might be better than a lifetime of these episodes that make me literally want to die, that I can’t predict, and that continue to get worse over time.

So yes, I scooped my own poop into plastic containers multiple times. That’s something most people never even consider doing. But maybe, hopefully, it was worth it.

 


First kisses and gluten ghosts

January 10, 2018

I recently went on two first dates. And both times, the gluten ghost haunted me.

If you’ve read this blog for a while, you know that I date, but not very often. So going on 2 first dates in a short span is really unusual! And each time I have a promising first date, it’s the same story: how can I tell the person about my gluten issues without making it sound too scary?

I went off gluten 6 years ago, in February 2012, and within months I saw signs of my health improving. It was slow going, and as I eventually learned about the many places gluten was hiding, I got sick less often. Still, I noticed that I often got sick after dates. Not every time, but a fair amount. Maybe it was from stress? Maybe I was overdoing things by going out and having to be “on” for so long?

It took 2.5 years after I first went gluten free, but finally I figured out the problem: kissing! There I was, sitting down with my then-boyfriend, watching him open a beer, when it hit me: he was going to drink that gluten-filled beer, then kiss me, and I bet that would make me sick! I told him my theory and asked him to brush his teeth after the beer, but instead he said he would just skip it. I didn’t get sick that night.

Or any other night I went out with him.

Then we broke up. And the next first date I had went great. I wanted to kiss him and thought, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a coincidence. We had met up for ice cream and he only had vanilla, so maybe it’s gluten free anyway! We kissed that night and a few hours later, I was really sick. Huh. So much for wishful thinking.

Ever since then, I have avoided first date kisses. Even if we don’t eat anything, maybe they’re wearing chapstick or lipstick that contains gluten. It’s a big risk.

I asked a friend with Celiac about this and she said she, also, can’t kiss someone who has eating and drunk something with gluten. But she said first dates aren’t a problem, because she doesn’t kiss on the first date anyway. I guess that makes it a bit simpler. For me, though, it’s an issue. I often kiss on the first date if I like the person and it’s reciprocated.

So that brings me to my two recent first dates.

The first went very well. We met for coffee and tea, and totally hit it off. After a couple hours, I suggested we eat lunch. I had already mentioned the Celiac Disease, and suggested a nearby restaurant where I knew I could eat. Over lunch, I found a way to slip in a mention about the kissing issue. I’ve been getting better at that over the years, but it still feels awkward.

After a looooong first date, almost 6 hours together, I knew I wanted to kiss her. But I couldn’t, because we’d just eaten lunch and her lunch was definitely not gluten free! Plus, she was wearing lipstick. Damn!

Thankfully, on our second date she didn’t wear lipstick (I took this as a promising sign) and we did eventually have our first kiss, with no fear of getting glutened. Yay!

Then I went out with the other person. Again, we met for coffee. It was a good first date, but not amazing. I was pretty sure I would go out with him again, though. We had met in the evening, and after an hour and a half the coffee shop was closing, so we said goodnight. I had found a way to mention the Celiac Disease, but not the kissing issue. Not that it was relevant – we had just met (we met online, so this was our first in-person meeting) and it felt more like a get-to-know-you kind of thing than a real date.

So there we were, standing on the sidewalk saying goodnight, when suddenly he was kissing me. I didn’t see it coming! We separated, and while my brain was still trying to figure out what just happened, he kissed me again, and his tongue was in my mouth! Yikes! This was too much. Forgetting the gluten issue, it just didn’t feel right at all. We said goodnight and I walked to my car feeling very confused…. and nervous!

I only saw him drink tea, but had he eaten before that? Would I get really sick? It was nerve-wracking to not know!

The gluten ghost haunted me that night and the next day, and when I didn’t get sick, I was finally able to relax.

These two dates were so different. They felt different both at the time and after the fact. But both had the same gluten ghost haunting them. The first time the ghost prevented me from kissing my date (assuming I wouldn’t have chickened out, that is) and the second time it haunted me afterward from the unexpected and unwanted kisses I received.

Dating is hard enough. I really wish I didn’t have to deal with the gluten ghost complicating it even more!


My nightmare came true

December 19, 2017

I have had the dream more times than I can count. I’m sitting at a table, talking and laughing with the people there. The people vary, but it’s always some combination of my family and friends. Sometimes my grandparents are there, which is nice, since they are no longer with us and I miss them.

As everyone laughs over the meal, food is passed around. Someone hands me a piece of bread or a cracker, and I eat it. I immediately realize what I just did – I ate gluten! I’m horrified. Then I wake up in a panic.

It takes some times for my racing heart to slow down, to remember that it was only a bad dream, that I did really eat gluten.

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These kinds of nightmares make sense. After all, I spend a lot of my life stressing out over food, worrying that I might accidentally eat something that will make me very sick, and knowing it’s easy to miss that thing. Still, it’s not like I would eat a cracker!

I went gluten free 6 years ago. At least, I thought I did. That’s when I stopped eating obvious gluten. It took years to eliminate the final traces of it from my life. Gluten hides everywhere, it seems, and I had never thought it check lemon juice, chapstick, cutting boards, or hand lotion. I certainly hadn’t thought about what my date had had to eat or drink before I kissed them, but it turns out, that is enough exposure to get me sick, too. But eventually, I figured those out.

Finally, thankfully, gluten was gone. And I felt so much better!

Then in September, I got sick. Really sick. I’ll save you the gory details, since they aren’t relevant. My naturopath had told me that, thanks to my lack of gluten exposure, it could take my body up to 48 hours to react. When I first got sick, I couldn’t figure it out – I had only eaten my own cooking all day. Then I remembered what my naturopath said, so I looked at the calendar. And I knew.

2 days earlier, I had eaten dinner in the house of someone I trusted to make a gluten free meal. We had discussed every ingredient, so I knew I would be fine. There was only 1 thing to avoid: the bread. Everyone careful, even passing the bread back and forth on the other side of the table, so crumbs wouldn’t land on my plate.

Later, I was helping to clear the table between dinner and dessert. Passing back to the dining room, I grabbed some grapes off the plate that had been put out. After I swallowed, someone mentioned that the little kid in attendance had taken a huge handful of grapes, realized it was too many, and put some back. The little kid who had been eating bread with his hands. Yikes! But when I felt fine that day I forgot all about it. I remembered only 2 days later.

I was really sick for 3 or 4 days, and it was a full 2 weeks before I could eat normally again. Just from that tiny bit of exposure, probably no more than a crumb.

And that’s what makes this week’s living nightmare so horrible.

There I was, enjoying a meal at the same home, knowing everything was fine. I had checked each ingredient. The soup was great. So was the kugel. I was enjoying the salad. She had made a salad bar, putting out each vegetable in its own bowl, along with chopped up eggs, sliced turkey, and more, so we could take whatever we wanted. I ate one rolled up piece of sliced turkey, and the second I swallowed, it hit me.

“Is this gluten free?”
“Of course it is, it’s turkey.”

And I knew. I spent some time crying, before finally calming down enough to come back. But I was no longer laughing and talking with the group. I was thinking about how I would handle this week.

She had bought the turkey at the supermarket’s deli counter. Maybe it was gluten free, maybe not. There’s no way to know. I know from my own research that most deli counter turkey is not gluten free, but maybe she bought one of the few that are? Still, she didn’t know to have the deli worker clean the machine first, to avoid contamination.

This was the one home where I always felt safe eating, and even there, she wasn’t careful enough. Can I never eat outside of my own home again? It’s so frustrating!

But that’s a long term problem for another day. In the meantime, there’s the question of whether or not I got glutened. There’s nothing to do but wait. Since it took 2 days for symptoms to appear last time, I’m in limbo. I haven’t gotten sick yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.

So I did the only thing I could think to do: I stopped eating. For the past 2 days, I have consumed only a few pieces of gluten free bread with some coconut oil, a little plain white rice, apple juice, and water. That’s it. Because not eating much for 2 days won’t kill me, but if I was glutened, and I get sick, I will be VERY glad I didn’t eat much. At least, that’s what I’m guessing.

The truth is, I don’t know. Because, despite the nightmares, this has never happened before. In 6 years, this is the first time I have had any idea I might have been glutened before I experienced any symptoms.

The psychological impact is rough. Especially because all I can do now is wait. By tomorrow I will know. My nightmare has already come true. Now I am waiting to see how bad it will be.


Struggling to endure

December 6, 2017

Last week was a really good week. And that made Sunday so much harder to deal with.

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First I took a long walk around beautiful Walden Pond (and took this photo), stopping a bunch of times to admire the view. It was unseasonably warm, and sitting down to watch the water was lovely. I was able to clear my head and figure some things out.

I made plans. I worked through ideas that had been weighing on me. I made some tough decisions about my finances and my health. By the end, I was super excited to get started! I walked about 2 miles total and felt ok afterwards. I rested that evening, but that was it.

A few days later my mom came to visit. After a lovely lunch, we took a walk in a wooded area. The sign said it was a 1 mile loop, and that seemed ok to us. Well, I don’t know what went wrong, but the path never looped. We eventually made it back to the car, but we walked about 4 miles. I was surprised I felt so good afterwards. Tired, but good. Hmm. Maybe this was a new trend?

The next day I hung out with friends and had a wonderful time. I got home later than I expected and was too tired to go out to a friend’s house that night like I had planned. Too bad. I really wanted to go, but I knew that resting was the right move.

It had been such a fabulous week. I exercised, got fresh air, got clear on a new mindset, spent time with friends.

And then it all changed. I spent all day Sunday feeling run down. I never left my apartment. I cancelled all of my plans for the day. This sucks, but it isn’t unheard of. And I did a lot this week, so I couldn’t complain, right? I trudged through the day, mostly reading a novel and wishing I could do more.

That would have been ok. It would have been disappointing but totally fine. If only that was it.

Sunday night I got really nauseated. Sometimes I know what causes the nausea, but usually I don’t. I tried Pepto Bismol, which usually helps, but this time it didn’t. I tried medical marijuana, which usually helps, but this time it didn’t. The nausea was really bad. My pulse was racing (114 while I was still sitting) and I felt bad all over.

Over the years, nausea has because an emotional trigger for me. I don’t know why it has, when the pain hasn’t, but it just has. So as usual, I started thinking about how horrible this is, and when will it end, and why won’t it ever go away. Yes, I have these episodes a lot less often now that I’m off gluten, corn, and a couple others triggers.

But why does it still happen? Was it something I ate? Something I did? A delayed reaction to the 4 mile walk 2 days before? How will I handle another 50+ years of this? Why did I bother to make plans? Obviously it was stupid to think I could ever get off of benefits and support myself. I should just stop trying. Then I started thinking about how it might be easier to just kill myself and end this. Except that would be very upsetting to my family and friends. I couldn’t do that to them.

I started having those thoughts a few years ago. I know it’s temporary. I’m not too worried, because I only have them when I’m curled in a ball on the floor, too nauseated to do more than stagger to the toilet occasionally. I have never gotten to the point of really wanting to kill myself but even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to until the worst of it had passed, and I never think about wanting to die except when I’m in the worst of it.

So all these thoughts were floating around in my head, and then something strange happened: I started to cry. And cry. And cry. Before I knew it, I was sobbing. Big, ugly sobs. I couldn’t stop crying. I thought I should call someone. (If you’re new to this blog, I live alone.) I ran through a mental list of awesome people in my life, and finally decided to call a friend who lives in my apartment complex. I asked him to come right over and he did. I didn’t explain, but he must have heard it in my voice, because he showed up with his dog, saying the dog was for therapy.

The dog, of course, immediately started to nuzzle me and lick me. He’s that kind of dog. Very sweet. But what I really needed was a hug and some understanding, and I got that.

We sat on the floor while I cried and talked. I always sit on the floor during these spells – for some reason, it just works for me. I cried myself out and we just sat there for a while. Then for some reason, I started crying again. Still, having someone there was extremely comforting.

Eventually I wore myself out. My friend and his dog left (he mentioned leaving the dog, but I was too weak to care for him.) I fell asleep on the couch to an old movie that I often watch when I don’t feel well. I woke up less than an hour later and found the nausea had subsided enough that I could drink a little water. Lots of diarrhea and lots of crying can really dehydrate a person. Then I stumbled to bed. I slept fitfully, but got through the night.

Monday was a bust. I cancelled plans and ate almost nothing. But it didn’t get that bad again. Tuesday was better, and I even left the apartment. And today is better still (though it’s after noon and I’m still in my pajamas, so it’s not fantastic – I try to get dressed by noon every day when I can.)

So why am I sharing this? I’m sharing it for a few reasons. For one, amongst my friends with chronic illness, I’m often seen as the strong one. Strangers online (both through this anonymous blog and under my real name) say that I’m a role model. I have my shit together. I’ve got a good handle on all of this. I work my butt off to take care of my health, research new treatments, find the best doctors and practitioners. That’s all true. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have really bad times, too. I think we all need to remember that the people who seem to be great probably have bad times behind closed doors where we can’t see them. It’s important not to idealize people, but to see them as they are.

It’s a reminder that we all have our struggles. We struggle, and then hopefully we have better days, too. We don’t need to assume someone is perfect in order to have them as a role model.

I’m not perfect. I’m still continuing to fight every day for the best health possible. I want to believe that one day those episodes will end. Until then, I will just keep on trying. Because what else can I do?


Fed up with fear

October 24, 2017

I remember the “old” me like it’s someone else. Someone else who took risks. Someone else who moved all the way across the country to try something new. Someone else who traveled overseas alone. Someone else who went scuba diving with sting rays despite her fear of open water (and yes, I was terrified of the open water! I was happy with the sting rays. Go figure.) Someone else who simply did things.

Grand Cayman Underwater 24

My hand, petting a sting ray’s nose. It was softer than I expected.

But no, it was me. Me before I felt this sick and tired and in pain all the time. Except not really. My nausea was much worse back then. The pain was just as bad (or worse), simply in fewer parts of my body. But the fatigue wasn’t the same. The food limitations weren’t so strict. The knowledge of how sick I was hadn’t reached me yet. I figured I was ok, just with pain and nausea, and so I did things.

And now I don’t.

I haven’t been on an airplane in almost 7 years. I miss travel, but I don’t do it. What’s the worst that could happen? I hate to think about it. But would it really be all that bad?

Why don’t I try new things that are fun and exciting? Sure, I do new things, but they’re boring things. I’m writing a book. I tried a new group through Meetup. I have started dog sitting. I might enjoy the things, but they don’t open me to exciting new experiences. They don’t expand my view of the world. They aren’t like scuba diving with sting rays.

For a long time I have been frustrated by feeling like I couldn’t do things. Now I question if maybe I could do those things, but my fear is what’s holding me back. I get different opinions from my doctors. No one tells me sure, it’s no problem if I want to fly to England to visit a friend there. But they also don’t tell me it’s a horrible idea and I shouldn’t consider it. I get a lot of, “you could probably do it if….”

And then I wonder if my fear is rational. I’m worried about having a lousy trip because I feel horrible the entire time. It seems like a waste to spend a lot of time, effort, and money on a trip that I won’t even enjoy. But I could risk that. It’s not what’s ultimately holding me back. No, what’s holding me back is a fear of setting back my health.

If you have been following this blog, you know that 6 years ago, I was struggling, but getting by. I worked a full time job and sometimes went out after work. I liked a fairly “normal” life. Then things got so bad that I was on bed rest 3-5 days a week. Now I am doing much better than I was a few years ago, but no where near well enough to work a full time job. I can’t even manage a part time job. Still, things have been slowly improving. Doing something big and exciting could set me back. And a backslide could take years to recover from. I’m scared to risk that!

And let’s be clear, I’m not only talking about travel. I would love to go ziplining locally, but what if I injure myself, or my adrenals can’t handle the excitement? I want to go to a party and stay out late and have fun, but whenever I try I feel horrible for days afterwards, sometimes weeks, so now I’m scared to do it anymore. I want to try a new type of food that’s free of gluten, corn, and the other foods I can’t eat, but what if it makes me sick? I could go on and on.

Some of these are reasonable and I should avoid them. But others….. am I letting fear hold me back too much?

Fear has it’s place. It protects us from doing things that will hurt us. But right now, I wonder if it’s stopping me from experiencing great things that I will love. Things that will make me happy. Because what’s the point of life if I’m not experiencing it? Then again, what’s the point of life if I’m always making myself miserable?

I don’t have an answer to these questions, but at least I have gotten to the point of questioning my own fears and whether or not they are valid. I’m frustrated that I don’t have answers, but I am glad to be asking the questions.

Maybe one day I will be able to answer: are these fears reasonable?

If you have dealt with similar fears, how have you handled them? Do you take the risks, or avoid them?


The power of a hug

October 14, 2017

Somehow, I did it. Despite the crappy weather that makes me feel horrible, I managed to not only survive the short weekend with my friends, but to enjoy it!

Ok, it wasn’t all great. I did feel like shit part of the time. But having friends there made it easier to handle in some ways.

Of course, having friends there also made it harder to handle. They went on walks when I couldn’t, and while someone was always hanging out at the house with me, I know they limited themselves to do it. I wanted to be carefree and have fun, but life isn’t always that way.

Not that the others were carefree. One was frustrated with a spouse, another had job worries, etc. You know, life. It’s easy to forget about that stuff when you live alone and can’t work, but health does not guarantee an easy, stress-free life.

So there we were on Saturday night, having a lovely dinner, when it hit me. Symptoms. Fuck.

I went to lay down on the couch. It was an open space. No one could see me because the back of the couch blocked their view from the dining room table, but they knew I was there, and I would sometimes speak up to join in the conversation as they cleared the dishes and put away food. I was nauseated and in pain, not that they knew what my symptoms were. They just went about their evening, because they know that’s what I prefer. No fuss.

And then it got worse. Resting on the couch wasn’t enough. I found myself breathing hard, face pressed to a pillow, willing myself to feel better. I wanted to have fun with my friends. I didn’t want them to know what was going on.

It’s lousy that we have this stigma in our society. These are my closest friends, but I didn’t want to tell them what was going on because I didn’t want to sound whiny, or like I was trying to make a big deal out of nothing.

How ridiculous. How common. How sadly natural.

And then suddenly, as if she knew, one friend came over, leaned over the back of the couch, and asked earnestly if she could do anything for me. I said no, while at the same time, wishing I could ask for a hug. She’s not the huggy type, and I felt ridiculous. Still, her asking was like a hug in a way, and it suddenly brought tears to my eyes.

I never cry when I feel bad like this. It wasn’t that bad, on my own scale of suckitude, after all. But having someone care to ask made me emotional. I’m not used to that. Usually when I feel horrible like I did that night, I’m at home. Alone. With no one around to even be aware that something is wrong, much less to offer help.

Then another friend came over and simply gave me a hug. And when I let go to pull back, she held on. She kept hugging. She hugged and hugged. And it felt amazing.

The next day I pulled her aside to tell her how much that hug helped. But in the moment, I just felt it and enjoyed it.

Amazingly, I started feeling better right after that. Well enough to at least get up for some more medical cannabis. That helped some more. And then, suddenly (though not really suddenly at all) I was able to get up and move around. Ok, my knee still had shooting pains, so I wasn’t walking well. I had to sit with my leg up for the rest of the night. But the nausea went away. The pain because bearable. And my heart felt happy.

Because for once, friends were there to offer help and give me hugs. And that made all the difference.

 


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