I’ve been trying to figure out if, and how, to write about a recent experience, and how to do it in a way that doesn’t gross anyone out, isn’t TMI, and still makes a point worth making. So, here goes.
As almost anyone who has been on Oxycodone will tell you, it can be a really effective treatment for short-term pain like the kind I am experiencing post-total knee replacement surgery, and I couldn’t be more grateful. It is helping me do what needs to be done to recover and get strong again. However. It does have a couple of gnarly side-effects, including nausea—which I am addressing with another drug—and another side-efffect that is kind of the opposite problem. A problem most people have experienced but no one wants to talk about. Starts with a ‘c’ ends with an ‘ion’. Yep. That one. A most basic and essential bodily function that we all, or at least I, take for granted, comes to a complete stop, and I do mean complete. Is it uncomfortable? Hell, yes. It can, and in this case did, render me almost helpless. It sounds weird to say that something so basic was so terrifying, but for more than a few hours, it was. Thankfully, with the good guidance of a kind and caring medical provider, and a few OTC drugs, things came out well in the end (sorry). It was kinda epic, to say the least.
That particular condition is nothing to be cavalier about. Left untreated it can send you to the doctor for what sounds like an incredibly embarrassing treatment, and in severe cases, even surgery. Getting rid of sh*t of any and all kinds, whether in our garages, offices, attics, closets, computers, shelves, minds, and yes, our bodies, matters. When we don’t, eventually stuff gets backed up, and it affects a whole lot of other stuff, not to mention the people we love and share life with. My physical condition required help. It meant disclosing something I’d rather not disclose, and doing what was necessary to lighten my load, and get on with life. Getting on the other side of it all was kinda epic, to say the least.
So why write about such an icky thing? Because out of it came two completely unexpected gifts: Empathy and compassion. I’ve never had a panic attack, nor am I prone to anxiety. I’m prone to plenty of things, just not those. But for more than a few hours, I think I experienced what a panic attack might feel like. A debilitating tsunami of fear that you can’t escape, can’t control, and can’t see—or push— (sorry) your way out of.
When I don’t experience something that others have to contend with, it’s easy to minimize their experience. To pass judgement on what they could or should do differently. To think they are making much ado about nothing. To form an opinion on their experience, based on my own. My recent episode gave me an opportunity to see others in a different light, and to feel what they might feel. To get inside their skin after experiencing being inside of my own in a new way. Maybe that is what we are meant to do when we suddenly find ourselves in a hurt locker that we can’f find our way out of without help. In feeling empathy, I can identify with their experience without passing judgment. In feeling compassion, I can be moved to do something—if it is mine to do—to relieve their suffering. Any time we can begin to see others through eyes enlightened by our own experience, we become better humans. We can show up and become a safe space, offer a helping hand, a listening ear, or—when welcomed—some hard-earned wisdom.
And when called for, a glass of prune juice.
Can’t hurt. Might help. Might even be kinda epic.
(Now, one of my even more favorite wines.)
