Over...

Gosh, it has been a while.  Life.  Stuff.

I spent days on end dealing with the sewage that was backing up into my basement toilet.  Yes, the problem did not go away.  Sadly, after spending $350 having the sewer line snaked, it was determined that the sewer line needed to be dug up.  Dug down.  Spend lots and lots and lots of money.  SIGH.

It was a long process because the weather turned frozen, just as I was trying to deal with sewage in my house.  Sewage!  Using water brought it up and out of the toilet.  Snaking brought it up and out of the toilet.  Camera-ing the sewage line brought it up and out of the toilet.  Day after day I had to clean up sewage from the basement floor, scrub the crud encrusted toilet.  Over and over.  I lost my appetite.

I am left with a mammoth pile of dirt over my ex-hole.  The digger said that it could take 6-12 months to settle back down.  Amos loves the pile.  I do not.  But I am very thankful that no more sewage is spilling up into my house.

The man who came to camera came without notice, so I did not hear him whilst I was sleeping.  That made him rather angry.  I was awake when he called to come back by and his anger frightened me.  He was big and tall and very unhappy.  After he was done, he told me that in order to dig down to the pipe, unblock it, and add a clear-out for future use, they would be going through my gate, cutting down the forsythia, digging up my rock river, and most likely crushing the stepping stones and bed ending where the excavator would be passing through to the blockage location.

I grieved those losses, especially because I am no longer in a position to do yard work. I could not restore those things.  And I just adore my rock river.

When the digger finally came, I begged him to spare the landscaping and the tree, to spare whatever he could.  He said he understood my agony and meticulously snaked the excavator through the side fence and over to the blockage.  He cut right up against the edge of the bed and then, after a few few, went beneath it to get to the blockage.  Yes, he saved all but three bricks from the edging.  I remain in awe of what he did for me.

I had to way another two days for the line to be cleared out because it was too cold for the jetter to work outside.  Two more days of sewage from even the scarce water I used.  Two more days without washing my hair.  UGH!

I struggle with things being over.  I had my sewage line dug replaced in Alexandria.  It was a known problem not disclosed at the sale of the house.  It was so expensive I had to take out a second mortgage on the house.  And I thought I had learned a hard lesson.  The main problem here was that a prior repair to the sewage line here, a known problem that was not disclosed either, was done rather poorly.  The replaced section was not fitted properly and there was a lip that things were catching against.  The build-up eventually became unsustainable, the toilet paper a sieve that no longer worked well enough for the water and solids coming through.  ICK.

In Alexandria, the sewer line replacement was a tremendous blow, but it was not gross.  No, the hardest moment of being a homeowner in Alexandria was dealing with the mice ... was having to kill mice and baby mice over and over and over again.  I half-joke that it traumatized me.  Really, it did.  How I killed them was with sticky traps, so I could hear their squeals.  It was awful.

This sewage thing was awful, too.  To have to clean up poop water over and over again, to have to scrub the stuck on sewage off the toilet and floor over and over again, was rather difficult for me.  Maybe it was more difficult because I am, still, struggling with the pacemaker.  Maybe it was more difficult for me because of where I am in counseling.  Maybe it was more difficult for me because of the meltdown at the doctor's office that still lingers.

As I said, I struggle with things being over.

My incision has developed hypertrophic scarring.  The pain from it is unbelievably intense, a lot like bee stings ... constant bee stings.  When I showed it to the new GP, I was ... thankful ... that she was concerned, because I felt like a complainer.  She said that she would like for me to wait another month before she sends me to a wound specialist, but there was some things that could be done to minimize what is happening with the overgrowth.

[It had to do with connective tissue issues.  A lot of folk with dysautonomia have connective tissue issues.  That may be part of the problems I am having with my joints.  SIGH.]

Even with her, with the new GP, I am struggling with things being over.

She was so understanding I couldn't believe it.  She had no problem with my anxiety and tears and fears.  And she actually wants to see me even more frequently than I hoped for until she learns more of my health.  As she put it, I am no longer "medically homeless."  Truly, more than I could have asked for.

And yet three days of struggle trying to get my Tier-1 and Tier-2 prescriptions transferred to the online pharmacy where I can get them for free, I am deeply afraid the new GP will change her mind and fire me.  I suppose I am not yet over being fired by the replacement GP.  She was not the doctor for me.  I needed to find a doctor who understands.  But being fired as a patient, being told that I don't need medication but needed a psychiatrist.  No matter that just a short while later I found myself getting a pacemaker.  Clearly, I have medical problems!  No matter that my counselor, despite what she has heard and seen, keeps telling me that I don't need a psychiatrist.  No matter that I have had three doctors now tell me that I am not crazy, that I am ill.  I still fear the doubt and the judgment.  I fear the labels.

I fear being a bother.
I fear being too much work.
I fear being not good enough as a patient.

Next Friday I see the cardiologist again.  The last time I saw him, my incision was a tiny white line.  Now it is a red worm atop my skin.  And yet I fear telling him just how much it hurts because I have been so poor a patient with this pacemaker.  The pocket still hurts.  I still greatly struggle with the pacing.  And now the incision trouble.  I actually fear seeing him.  Being the problem.

So much fear.

My counselor has not understood why I want the hospital bill so badly.  But I do much better with the concrete.  I know that it was denied, although pre-authorized.  I do not know what will happen next.  Despite being totally overwhelmed by the cost of the sewage repair, it is a concrete number.  I paid half when the work was complete and I will pay the rest in five installments (somehow I have to figure out how to buy groceries and make those installment payments).  Because I asked for those not to start until the 28th of February, which is actually the first day of my next billing cycle, I have this billing cycle to finally learn (once the prescriptions are processed) how much my prescriptions will be.  I also have this month to swallow the doubled utility bills from the visit.  I have them all now. I know what I am facing.  I can plan.

I cannot plan the pacemaker.  And its insertion is not over.  I cannot plan counseling.  And that is certainly not over.  I cannot plan just how much I have changed from dysautonomia.  And that is, sadly, not over.

Both the doctor and her nurse (whose sister has dysautonomia) messaged me on Friday because of how upset I was over the continuing problems with getting the prescriptions transferred.  Both assured me that they are here to help me.  And both acknowledged that dysautonomia changes people in profound ways, changes thoughts and perspectives and capabilities.  I wept when I read that.  I grieve deeply the loss of who I was.  I stand outside myself and watch this person living my life almost in disbelief.  Who is she?  That loss is not over for me.  It is a daily loss, never ending.  I wept both in sorrow but also in relief.  Someone understands!

It has been a long two weeks for me, filled with things still not yet over.