And so it began. These are the steps on my journey to better health, and hopefully, a longer life. I do not feel ashamed to lay my story bare upon the pages of this blog. The things I have suffered had a direct effect upon my health, and therefore are a part of the disease I now bear.
My name is Wendy, and I am soon to be thirty-five years old. I can’t really fathom it myself—how I went from sixteen to my mid thirties. I hadn’t thought much about my mortality for awhile, until that mortality had been thrust into my face. Ironically, I used to wish for death. The first twenty-five years of my life were hell on earth, or at least my own definition of hell. I had a secret. I had a terribly abusive father. Every day brought its own flavor of torture. Some days it was outright physical abuse—hitting, punching, kicking—and still other days it was psychological abuse (suffocation with blankets until I begged for mercy, attempted drownings, etc, as long as it ended with me promising to do anything he wished). Every day offered emotional abuse and mental programming. When each moment of the day you are told how worthless you are, you begin to believe it. When each day you are told you have no skills, no talents, and have no business doing anything beyond becoming a pregnant, subservient woman…you give up all hope, you stop trying to pursue your education and dreams. When your father tells you that you are a waste of life, it’s a permanent scar that runs deep. When your father tries to rape you, it is a moment in which you doubt your own sanity and ponder taking your life as a way to escape the pain. Eventually, your anguish becomes so consuming it begins to affect your health. Stress can, and will, kill you slowly.
My first ulcer was diagnosed in sixth grade, attributed to the stress of growing up with the above mentioned father. I continued to suffer from ulcers through the coming years. I was warned that my digestive system was taking the secondary hit to a far too overloaded emotional system. I was told to try to remain calm and to use antacids. Sure…I could just go to my happy place when my father tormented me (or later boyfriends did the same). I didn’t HAVE a happy place, and I never, ever relaxed. Relaxing emotional walls or physical readiness could potentially mean giving an abuser the advantage. Needless to say, I am now the owner of a medical chart full of peptic ulcer history. I eventually also was the winner of excruciating gallbladder attacks. I had a large stone which was causing more and more frequent episodes of pain. I opted out of surgery, and instead engaged in a natural “cleansing” that luckily pushed the stone out. There is family history of gallstones, but my oral contraceptives may have also been the culprit (or at least a contributor).
2009 was an interesting year for me. I recovered from my first ever concussion in January. Unfortunately, I have no “cool” ATV or dirtbiking adventure to tie the concussion to. Three bookshelves full of paperbacks had fallen on my head as I was rearranging my collection. This was the final sign I needed to return to college for my English Bachelors, an idea I had been mulling over for awhile.
If January had entered with a literal bang, then February to March carried with it the aftershocks. I began having pain attacks, centered under my rib cage. I assumed it was yet another ulcer, as it did not resemble gallbladder attack. Altering my diet & consuming mass quantities of antacids as I did for self-treating ulcers was not helping. Nothing was helping. The pain was intense and constant, and made me want to claw out my midsection for relief. Heating pads on the area offered a small bit of solace, but ultimately the pain persisted. I caved and went to the clinic.
There were tests—many, many, tests. I had no active ulcers, no blood indication of the issue. I was referred to a large hospital system for endoscopy in May. My first endoscope revealed a mass of tissue in my stomach. Thinking it possible cancer, my surgeon referred me to a colleague for additional endoscopy—this time with an ultrasound wand. When I woke, and the doctor came to speak with me, his tone had me on edge immediately. The mass in my stomach? Not cancer, but scar tissue from numerous ulcers. This scar tissue remains within me today, but it contributes to an abundant overproduction of stomach acid. I was placed on daily proton pump inhibitors at the time, but I no longer take them. In addition, my gallbladder walls are intensely scarred/thickened from the damage of the stone. If my gallbladder gives me any grief in the future, the surgery to remove it will no longer be a choice, but a necessity. My spleen was found to be abnormal, but this could be attributed to a bout with mono in my teens. The news that had the doctor’s face twisted? He held the ultrasound image to my face, and said, “This is your pancreas. All of those white areas are damage. Permanent damage.” Then he went on to state that this level of damage is rarely seen in anyone other than a hardcore alcoholic, and I have five out of eight markers… I didn’t understand what he was saying. It wasn’t really sinking in. He asked me, gently but with a little bit of contempt, exactly how many drinks I have in a day. He asked me again when I told him I don’t drink. Then again when I repeated— I. Don’t. Drink. Ever. I can count on my two hands the number of total drinks I have had in my lifetime, and I hadn’t touched a drop for about a year or two prior to my endoscopy. This was the first time I would hear the words chronic pancreatitis.
I, for one, had no idea what those words meant. I was in for a rude awakening when following up with my primary care physician. I waltzed in, figuring there was a pill for this, or I’d change my diet for a month or two. I was so wrong. Chronic Pancreatitis is permanent. What’s worse is-- it’s progressive. It can mean a return of those terrible pain attacks. It can mean prolonged hospital stays, fed thru an IV while the pancreas calms. It can mean substandard quality of life, dependent upon a morphine pain pump to marginally function. Ultimately, it can mean a far too early death for me. There was the dose of mortality. I was thirty-four years old and having to think about how I could die far before my time.
My doctor is a firm believer in a person trying to help themselves as much as possible, rather than just handing a person a pill bottle. He was going to educate me. Indeed, I learned a few things that day as he and I talked. The body weight I had put on, and couldn’t lose despite very hard core workouts six days a week—was related to my newfound disease, as was all of my pain and general malaise. I had probably had this disease for a long time…and didn’t know it. My body no longer knew how to digest food. Period. So no matter how much I worked out, nothing would make a difference. My body simply didn’t know how to digest. Changes had to be made. I wasn’t going to get by with a pill, and he wasn’t going to let me get by with no effort. While it is a progressive disease, which may get worse and worse with time no matter my efforts, I knew one very scary truth that day. To a certain extent, this was in my hands.
