It all started with rushes of intense fatigue and slowly started feeling like I had a severe flu coming on. Then the abdominal pain started. Again. I know this series of events all to well after dealing with diverticulitis since 2011, so I went to see a doc, who rushed me to the ER in a wheelchair; in a wheelchair for p-sake! It felt like being catapulted in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy! But, however odd this may seem, it felt good, almost like a pleasant surprise, that I was taken seriously. I’ve been sent away so many times in the past, that I was expecting it to happen again.
I was monitored for a few hours. Heartrate, bloodtests, an abdominal ultrasound and sent home with one of the most nasty antibiotics I know: Ciprofloxacine. I had those last year and they made me even more sick than I already was…Plus, these antibiotics can cause permanent nerve damage. I wasn’t left with nerve damage, but it did left me with acid reflux. Yikes!
And finally, for the first time, an honest and therefore heartfelt conversation with the ER doc: We don’t know how and why those diverticula (the pockets, weak spots in the intestinal lining) occur, we don’t know why they get inflamed/infected, we don’t know what to do about it, we can only do something when it turns into a complicated attack (that’s when diverticulitis turns into die-verticulitis), you did not do anything wrong, just a case of bad luck, I am only giving you those antibiotics because we don’t want you to knock at deathsdoor again. Right. Me neither.
A wave of emotions arose:
- Gratefulness for his honesty and for being taken seriously.
- Knowing that sending me home with antibiotics was a kind of trail and error thing for them to see how my body would react; not being able to heal the rootcause.
- Wanting to divorce my intestines on the spot and realizing almost at the same time how grateful I am for my life, how capable I am, how capable my body is, in handling adversity.
- Knowing immediately that I had to give up any thought of control. If this is a case of ‘bad luck’, thoughts of control carry the risk of
beating myself up over this, causing resistance and stress and my body already proved over and over again that she did everthing possible to survive, to live! It proved to be way more helpful to open up and welcome the unwelcome.
When I came home, I slept for 11 hours straight and then some more. So, now my CPR (inflammation marker) is being tracked and I am waiting gratefully and gracefully for yet another CT-scan, whilst having all kinds of creative ideas. I cannot control what my intestines do, but I sure can control my attitude!
How do you deal with letting of (imagined) control? With living in the unknown? Care to share? You can comment or hit the contactbutton.