My amazing brave son Austin comforting his mamma

I’m 34 years old. To the naked eye, most people think I’m still in my young 20′s. Inside, I’m 82.

It’s hard for people to understand my pain. My limitations. The way my body feels from the inside. It does not look on the outside like a body that greatly suffers. Well, I beg to differ .. I have a million battle scars, including and not limited to: stretch marks from pregnancy with my son, lazer scars from being burned – trying to rid the stretch marks, tattoos trying to cover up the stretch marks, incision scars from surgeries, scars from riding my bikes into rose bushes as a little girl – being stabbed by a million tiny thorns, riding motorcycles into bobbed wire fences, a scar on my left eye from glass shattering in my face, a scar on my right eye from my cat jumping on my face and clawing me open. I won’t even get into the scars on my heart.

Never-the-less, it’s hard for people to understand that a vibrant looking, optimistic, creative, loving, charismatic 34 year old woman is in pain everyday, suffering from chronic nerve damage. I have learned to live and cope and find what works for me the best that I can. It is a daily learning curve. I can do 7 dishes, but not 8. I can write for 30 minute intervals, not 31. I can turn my head to look over my shoulder while driving when the right arm is down. It’s really that ridiculous. 3 1/2 years of figuring it out. But there are the things I will never do because permanent nerve damage is like cutting the wires from your PC, or in this age .. wireless wires to our iphones, ipads, laptops – it can look fancy, but it still won’t work if it’s missing one part. And that’s me. I am missing parts.

I think we all learned in kindergarden the song: neck bones connected to our shoulder bone, shoulder bones connected to our back bone … It baffles me why, and I’m gonna do my best not to bash and announce names, yet, but why some of these corrupt people I am dealing with .. are really that ignorant. Kindergartners from that song know the anatomy of the body and how it functions. It’s not rocket science to figure it out. If one thing goes, they all start to go. It’s called a degenerative injury progressively getting worse.

It’s also not rocket science and especially with google – anyone can become a rocket scientist, or in my case, a medical expert on their own medical conditions. As well as become nearly close to obtaining your own law degree. Minus the physical degree. I know what I have. I know what I am talking about. I know what I am living with. I know what happened to me. I know that I went into a surgery one way and came out another way following extensive bleeding and major complications that went completely ignored, untreated and undiagnosed. And I know that for the last 3 1/2 years, I have been dealing with evil corruption and only remain standing because this is God’s war. Not mine.

What I didn’t have was a comparison. And now I do.

I had not had my hair done professionally, yes this is the magic number so get used to hearing it, in the last 3 1/2 years. When you suffer from chronic pain – hair, nails, tanning… more  of a hassle and pain to upkeep than it is pampering. And, living on God’s grace, doesn’t $ cover vanity for the most part.

the protruding vein in between my eye brows is the only physical evidence of how much pain I was in.. two days later ovary removed! crazy…

Kristen, professional hair stylist and beauty guru was not hearing any of that sitting in the audience listening to me share my story as a guest speaker at a church a few weeks ago. She approached me, giving me a full day of beauty! You better believe, a week later I’m in her salon! The poor dear in sympathy for my already existing medical issues, trying to pamper me, suddenly has me doubled over in her chair grasping onto my stomach. God what now?

The pain grew so intense, I was turning pale, breathing like I was in labor, and at one point almost passing out. Kristen suggested maybe we finish another day. I insisted, I am getting my damn day of beauty if it kills me! And it nearly did.

Not two days later I was desperately trying to crawl up the 45 cement stairs outside my little guest house I rent, and I collapsed. My neighbor upstairs found me and rushed me to the hospital. The ten minute drive there: anyone looking in the windows from the outside probably was thinking, oh how sweet .. husband is driving his pregnant wife in labor to the hospital. I was hunched over in the front seat, grabbing my hair, breathing in an out, pressing my head against the window, and banging my hand on his dashboard. He and I had never said more than a hello to each other while passing by.

Have I mentioned yet: I am 34. How many medical problems can a 34 year old possibly have? Have I mentioned yet: It’s not rocket science to figure out that when one thing goes, they all start to go? OK, just checking.

Before April 14th, 2009 – the day of surgery with the devil – I never even had a head ache. I didn’t need a primary doctor, because I never got a cold. Now, I have a mile high stack of medical doctors, reports, problems, prescriptions for this for that, that for that and this… I am a fed ex package being shipped to medical experts. For some reason, every expert, sends me to another expert. I am still trying to figure out what they are all experts of. If I had to guess: Experts at fed ex shipping.

I had shared my concerns with my most current, primary physician, more than once, how many times I pee in a day and that I feel like my bladder is overactive. Well, maybe that should have been a clue that something could be pressing on my bladder. But no, it was chalked up to I drink a lot of water. But no, in fact, I had a huge tumor growing and overtaking my left ovary. Pressing on my bladder.

I was admitted into Glendale Adventist Medical Center and I’m still baffled I made it through the pain I was in to leave alive. When I gave birth to my son, 15 years ago, I didn’t make a peep. I am not the screaming, moaning, annoying woman that has to have everyone in the hospital and down the street know she is in pain. However, last Wednesday, I was that woman. I didn’t give a second thought to who heard me or how God awful pathetic I sounded.

I was calling from my bed in the ER, behind the curtains with the circle shapes: “nurse, doctor, someone.. anyone.. help me. Please God help me.” I was hyperventilating crying… banging my head against the railing of my bed. Morphine didn’t do a thing. We had to bring in Morphine’s cousin, Dilaudid. Given to me in the amount of a “horses size dose,” says male nurse. And that was just to tolerate the ultrasound wand on my belly to determine what the culprit was.

The ultrasound technician called in the doctor. Massive cyst on ovary. More tears. Unbelievable. How? Why? Cancer?

The surgeon came to see me and wanted to perform immediate surgery that very night. He said it needed to come out and come out now. The big question: “How did you not know this thing was growing inside of you? Didn’t you feel it and how long have you been in pain?” I explained to him I am in pain every day of my life. I don’t know anymore what is normal or not. Plus, I take pain meds, so until the pain was at collapsing point, it’s hard to differentiate.

My sister had come to the hospital with my son earlier. They had left just prior to the surgeon coming in. I was alone. The fear set in. SURGERY. The last time I had surgery, I went in a healthy young 30 year old and came out no longer a healthy 30 year old.

That fateful surgery was a personal choice for a breast revision, more proportioned and image appropriate size. OK, let’s call it what is is. I had given my life to Jesus and I didn’t want to sport around porn star DDs anymore. I never wanted to be that big to begin with, but that’s a whole other story. I paid $14 thousand dollars to come out with permanent nerve damage and chronic pain after my “perfectionist, reality star, sweet, charming surgeon” and his staff, mishandled me durning surgery, than refused to treat and diagnose my days of bleeding and complications post surgery.

So once again I was laying in a hospital bed, drugged up to the max, alone with a surgeon I just met standing over me suggesting they wheel me into the surgical room that second. I couldn’t do it. I started to panic. I told him I needed a night to soak it in. Prepare myself. I explained to him why. He understood. He was gentle and kind. He assured me, they would keep me as comfortable as possible through out the night, but it had to come out the next day. It was going to burst. This thing that quite possibly had  hair, teeth, fatty tissue .. was in my ovary and it was going to burst.

My mom arrived the next morning. The prayers started pouring in. Love from over 300 people I didn’t even realize truly cared for me, followed me, acknowledged me. Overwhelming love. I felt like I was lifted on wings of angels and that no matter what, I would be OK. My music producer Miss AM came to see me. She brought me a bear. I suddenly felt 10 years old again. Finding comfort in a teddy bear, having a friend by my side and having my mom.

Fear is a strange emotion. Mixed with Dilaudid, it’s a hallucinogenic. I was convinced that every single person in the surgical basement was out to kill me. Hired by the corrupt evil attorneys and doctor that are trying to erase me. Everyone’s eyes stared at me and grinned evil smiles. They just couldn’t wait for me to go under the anesthesia. My heart pounded and in my head, I said my final prayers. I could die and just like the last surgeon, they could cover it up and it’s just another sad outcome of a non successful surgery.

I woke up. There was the confusion. Where was I? The bright lights? The blurred sounds of an unfamiliar voice saying my name over and over again. I called for my, “Mommy.” 

Got to love my mom. They wheeled me down the halls and into my recovery room. I hear my mom’s voice. “Mommy,” I say. She rubs my head and says, “Oh wow. You’re lips look so beautiful. Almost like you got botox injected. My goodness. You have Angelina Jolie lips.” To which I respond, “Oooo.. really. Take a picture.” The silver-lining of an Oxygen mask.

For the next two days I experienced everything a woman would experience after giving birth, via C-section. My stomach had two incisions. Out of those incisions were pulled what ended up being, not just a severe cyst, but a tumor (that appeared to be cancer free.. Praise God) that the surgeon described as the size of a 5 month fetus and my ovary. Both removed. There was no saving the ovary.

I was bleeding. So of course I had the Victoria secret sexy hospital underwear and pad. They had filled my stomach with gas to separate my insides so they could get the camera and tools up in there. I have never been coached and cheered on with such approval for farting. That was the big thing. I needed to fart or the next problem would be that my stomach would burst from gas. Does it ever end?

They were putting things in my butt. Poking me with needles. IVs kept slipping. Blood pressure. Pain medicine. Temperature checks every hour. Because the nerve damage on my right side .. everything had to be done primarily to my left side. Poor left arm – endured a lot. I still wasn’t able to eat or drink a thing. I have no desire to have a baby. I just did. And I didn’t get to bring it home.

My son asked me, “What did you decide to name my baby brother or sister they pulled out of your ovary?” Apparently we get a photo of it at my post op in a week. I will be sure to frame it.

Getting in and out of bed to pee was a horror show: I was hooked to wires on my finger tips – wires in my arm – wires connected to blood stimulating leg massagers – not being able to support myself with my right arm because my bone pops out my back with the slightest use and would pop my shoulder out of place with too much pressure – unable to use my stomach muscles – needles in my hands and arms on the left – and damn it, I refused to use a bed pan! That is where I drew the line.

I thought of people who were stranded in the wild. Eaten half alive by wild animals. With bow n arrows stuck in their sides. Still crawling for survival. And that is what I did. At a snails pace I crawled for survival. And I survived.

Not influenced by Morphine’s cousin, coming out alive – those eyes and grins in the surgical basement: they knew my condition was serious and I could easily die. They were serious eyes with grins trying to comfort me. I need to tell them that combo makes a scary face.

The surgeon coming at me with immediate surgery that sent me into a frightening panic attack: he wanted to save my life and he wanted to get the thing that was hurting me, out. Because he actually cared about me as a human being. He was not only doing his job. He was following his humanity and moral.

Every nurse from the time I arrived in ER, catered to my pain. My nerve damage. My needs. They didn’t just give me a smile and words I wanted to hear. They acted on them. I was given respect and I was given proper medical attention. What a difference proper medical attention makes.

I was released from the hospital with a personal visit from the surgeon. He gave me strict, precise home care instructions and personal contact information in the event I undergo any complications. Imagine that? Praise God, I am on day 3 with no complications. No further nerve damage. No extensive bleeding. I went in dying in pain with a life threatening tumor and came out, better than the way I went in. Imagine that ?

My trust and faith was completely broken for medical professionals. Every one in 3 1/2 years has failed me. And in 3 days, I am beginning to see a spark of that faith restored. At a snails pace.

I thank from the depths of my heart the some 300 and counting people who have reached out to me with Love and Prayers

I dedicate this post to Glendale Adventist Medical Center and give my appreciation to the entire medical staff! 

Thank you to my sister Lindee Daniel for being as always, the first on scene. You are one in a million. And to my family, Kari, Zach, Alyssa, Barney – who I know were with me in spirit, prayer and heart  

Thank you to my son Austin! For making me laugh and making me proud! And making sure Grandma Salli got the things from Trader Joes that I like! Oh and my yellow roses  

Thank you to my mom Salli for being by my side and making me laugh even though it caused me insane pain to do so … laughter is my medicine. (and to George for our hospital feast when I finally was aloud to eat!)

Thank you to my friend and music producer Audrey Montoya for being with me day in and day out and pulling down a star for me with a musical dream attached*

AND THANK YOU TO GOD FOR YET AGAIN … KEEPING SHANDA RENEE ON PLANET EARTH TO FINISH THE WORK !!!