The Witch of Endo, Pt. 3: The Companionship of Pain

(Ok—look, I’m fine. I had a rough couple of nights and needed to get this out. It’s fairly melodramatic. But I am not alone. Please don’t worry about me.)

Sometimes the pain gets to the point that you cannot sleep. It wants your company and just will not let you be. It’s as if your whole body is on red alert: unresponsive to drugs, deep breathing, visualization exercises or any combination thereof. You toss and turn, or (if it’s really bad), grimly lay as still as possible. You get up, read for a bit (1am) drink soothing teas (2am), go back to bed (3am), check your Facebook (4am), cave in and take more drugs (7am). Go back to bed (9am). Try some more deep breathing. No dice. Your body is convinced there is some sort of immanent crisis and you cannot talk it out of its stubborn and pointless readiness to act. 

Nothing is going to happen. Ever. The pain is just going to go on and on. This is the crisis. At 11am you give up. You get up.

You feel terrible. You feel weak: no one ever died from Endometriosis. People are starving in The Horn of Africa, being shot and killed in the Mid-East. People have Cancer, MS, AIDS. Your pain is inane. It means nothing. It fills the world.

There are all kinds (not just one kind!) of pain. They are distinct characters, and you know them well: their shape and tone. their foibles and preferences. You’ve spent a lot of time with them. They are reliable company.

1. The Drum: This is pain that can creep up on you. It starts out quiet, distant. Sometimes it stays that way, and you only notice it when the wind is right. Sometimes it get closer. It’s still background music but it has a beat and you dance to it. Your body knows the rhythm and you tread carefully. Then you realize you are standing in front of the big speakers and the music is so loud it actually occupies space and shoves you around. People’s lips move but you hear nothing.

2. The Lava: This is pain that oozes tendrils of heat through your pelvis. Sometimes you can feel the point of eruption. It craws and burns and spreads. It is slow but relentless. Everything in its path catches fire.

3. The Seams: These are the places that the pain is dug in. It can feel like seams of a rare mineral running through bedrock, foreign veins burrowing into bones and organs. It is hooked into everything and you imagine if you could ever grasp it and pull it out, your whole bloody dripping pelvis would be dragged along with it. You think it might not be so bad to be rid of the damn thing.

4. The Lighting Storm: This is electric, and comes out of the clear blue nothing. You are going about your day when BOOM! Shots and shards of sensation vibrate through your abdomen. You are wide-eyed, stunned, shivering.

5. The Weasels: You seem to be inhabited by tiny, sharp-toothed rodents with ill intentions. They scarper and claw, around and around and around. They trigger a similar hamster wheel in your brain: around and around and around you go. You get going so fast it’s as if your mind develops a centrifugal force: your pain is the only still point, and everything else is flung out, away from you. Nothing gets through.

6. The Orgasm. I think this is what they call “breakthrough pain.” Other symptoms lead up to it, and at some point you realize that everything else has been foreplay and you are choicelessly headed for something bigger and there is no turning back. It is as encompassing and immediate as a climax. You clutch a pillow and scream. Afterwards, you are left trembling and vulnerable, clinging to whatever flotsam of self you are able to salvage. If you are lucky, the pain rolls off you and leaves you alone for a bit. If you’re not, it’s an all-nighter and that bastard is tireless. You hate every second that he rips into you but there’s no stopping it. You’re his, and you are helpless.

Like sex, you don’t really want the general public to witness this. Any of this. Sure, people know you have it, but that’s no reason to share the reality of the event. It’s too raw, to private. Too revealing. So you take a shower, get dressed, and fake your way through another day. You find a smile that fits. You tell yourself that this does not have to be a bad day. When people (who are not as stupid as you’d like them to be), inevitably ask how you’re feeling, you conjure up something vague, like, “I’m a little worn out.”  You say this as much to fool yourself as to reassure others.

You tell yourself that the work will at least distract you. It doesn’t. You are pissed off—at the pain, your own weakness, everything. Rage keeps you moving when nothing else does; you grit your teeth and think something along the lines of “You might have fucked me all night, but you are not going to fuck up my day.”  You tell yourself this is not the best habit to get into.

When you write about it, you can’t even bring yourself to be you.  You write for the second person, for someone else who is you. You do this because it makes it easier to admit to, but also because the bastard has half convinced you that you are utterly isolated and even when you are writing alone at 11am after two nights of no sleep and giving the pain faintly ridiculous characteristics to somehow break it down into a manageable reality, you mostly write for the second person because you want to believe there is one. You would wish this on no-one. But you don’t want to believe that you are the only one. You don’t want to be alone, with only the pain for company.

When PEEPS Attack, or, My Visit To The ER

I am typing this one-handed. I tried typing two-handed, while avoiding using my injured left index finger, but ended up typing: So, rrerftg, then screaming: Ouch, FUCK!

So, as y’all know, I have been gone most of the summer, and barely seen Urban. This is the first weekend we have really had together at home, so we decided to stay in and relax. It was lovely last night, cool and breezy, and we wanted to enjoy the fine weather on our little farm.

We have this magnificent fire-pit:

We also had Halloween Marshmallow Peeps (Peeps are shapely marshmallows coated in sugar. When you roast them over a fire, the sugar caramelizes. It’s delicious):

The ghost did it

We didn’t think that putting the two together would land me in the Emergency Room at 1am. I mean, we’ve done stuff like this at our house without it resulting in the filling-out-of-forms:

This is a trained professional!

*

This is just me

We settled in at the fire-pit for the evening. I really enjoy circling and poking at a fire, getting the logs just right for maximum temperature and aesthetic affect. After some satisfactory shifting and adjusting, I finally sat down next to Urban. The dogs lolled about, now and then furtively gnawing on a bit of stick from the woodpile. The only sounds were the bustling fire-noise, the breeze, crickets, and the occasional, faint mooooo from the cows over at Cow Pond. Farm sounds. I felt myself relaxing… the last three months of stressful school, travel and work slipping away into the Midwestern night. Urban & I talked and laughed as we happily began roasting Peeps.

I like my marshmallows done properly: they should be gooey on the inside and crisp on the outside. They must be cooked evenly. The innards should not be so underdone that they separate from the outer melty part and adhere in a sad, cold lump to the end of the stick (the shame!). The exterior should not be blackened or burnt, but carefully roasted to a rich, toasty golden-brown. Now and then I’d pull mine out of the fire and peer at it. I couldn’t see the little ghostly dude clearly, so I stuck my finger in it to see if it was done.

Sugar starts to caramelize around 320 degrees Fahrenheit. When marshmallows melt, they get sticky. The burning hot sugar-and-marshmallow-goop adhered to my finger.

I wiped it off. It felt like I wiped most of my actual finger off with it.

At first I was, like, oh wow, that one hurt. Urban, being the thinking one in our marriage, wanted me to go inside immediately and check out the damage in adequate lighting. I am the stubborn one. After some ceremonial fussing, delay and denial, I complied. It really did hurt. In we went, trailing Peeps, marshmallow sticks, blankies and dogs behind us. By then I was starting to feel sort of weird, like I might puke and/or pass out (not necessarily in that order). The tip and pad of my finger was dark red, blistered and swollen.  For such a tiny area, it seemed to be generating an excessive amount of sensation. I stuck it under cold water and took lots of deep breaths.

Urban wanted to take me to the ER. I was, like: Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not that bad; I’ll be fine in a minute. He gave me the look (you know the one) and pointed out –-rather unnecessarily, I thought— that when I sheared a sizeable hunk of bone off of my femur a few years ago, I said the same thing (I didn’t realize it was broken, ok? I thought it was just a bad sprain).

After a few minutes, even I had to admit that all was not well in Saum’s-index-finger-land. My protests began to sound whiny and half-hearted. Urban bundled me into the car, and off to the ER we went. I felt foolish, convinced the ER people would ignore and/or mock me. It wasn’t a very impressive-looking injury.

The ER folks at Maple Grove were wonderful. By the time we got there I was feeling shaky and ill. The pain was astonishing.

Tearing off a hunk of femur: 7. Dime-sized 2nd degree burn on tip of index finger: 9.

ER Doc: We can give you something for the pain right away, either as a shot or a pill.
Me: No needles. I have a thing about needles.
ER Doc: The pill will take awhile to work. The injection will help immediately.
Me: I’ll take the shot.

Our Lady Of Morphine. 2002

They gave me a shot, bandaged up my finger, shared some sympathetic don’t-feel-dumb,-marshmallow-injuries-are-more-common-than-you-realize stories, and sent us on our way.

On our way out, we got to stop by the fascinating magical narcotics-dispensing machine. I was delighted.

This is really a thing!

So that was our adventure. I’m fine, or at least I will be in a few days. Urban is taking care of me (as usual). I’m happy it’s my left hand. And I’m happy that it’s raining today so I’m not missing out on riding or anything.

Oh, and by the way? Before Urban dragged me from the firepit back into the house, I finished roasting my Peep and ate the damn thing. It was perfect.

Ahhh! Haikus!

Must write a haiku
For my “Journey and Quest” class.
It’s not going well.

This terse verse is huge--
I don’t know how to begin.
My words feel empty.

I read the Masters
Beauty, in words and meaning
Now I’m scared to try.

No cherry blossoms--
I should just write what I know.
What is before me.

Grey squirrels gather
Discarded crumbs from my lunch.
This park is dirty.

Walking in the sun
My friend and I laugh so loud
People turn and look.

Cambridge cooks in heat,
Packed with tourists and students.
I love this city.

Midterms stress me out.
I avoid writing papers
And play ‘Angry Birds.’

In the shade of trees
The grass is green, cool and deep.
Tired eyes find peace.

Fragrant jasmine tea:
Icy and sweet, from a straw.
Nice, on a hot day.

July moon steals sleep
I stroll beside the river.
Drunk boys stagger by.

I miss my small farm--
Horses leave rich summer grass
And run to greet me.

I remember, once
The dog came in from outside;
Coughed up a live frog.

I look at my phone
To find out that it’s raining--
I’m standing in it.

There Will Be A Slight Delay

I was washing my hair yesterday when suddenly, I thought of my NSOMNIASAUM blog. I couldn’t remember the last time this had happened (not the hair washing, silly!). So I looked at my blog, and…Holy Shit! I haven’t posted anything since April 1. Is this a joke? What happened? Where have I been? Why haven’t I been writing?

Well, to be fair, I have been writing loads of other stuff. I wrote articles for Points of Light Institute, State of Formation and Huffington Post. I wrote a long, boring document for the IRS explaining why Headwaters/Delta Interfaith ought to have tax-exempt status. I wrote 140 character tweets for various purposes and organizations. Mostly, I wrote to-do lists and then did the stuff on them, crossed the stuff off, and added more stuff. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But, still…April?

The other thing going on is that I feel like shit. I had surgery in January but by mid-April, my Endometriosis was acting up again. I don’t like writing about it. But I also don’t like NOT writing about it—you know, writing around it, pretending it’s not happening when it is happening. Plus, being in pain limits my energy so by the time my “real” work (whatever that means) is done, I’m pretty much done. Spending more time in front of the computer just to keep everyone up to date on how miserable I am…hmmm…that’s strangely unappealing. Go figure.

Also, as y’all know, I get pissed off, so I took an Anger Management class, and was SO excited to write about it…then (at the facilitator’s request), I sort of promised not to. It felt awkward to write about my life when I wasn’t able to discuss all the interesting internal crap that Anger Management stirred up, confronted, and redefined. But the class was a useful experience, and I met some marvelous, inspiring ladies. And OMG! Something profound happened, I didn’t blog about it, but…it was like it still actually happened! Who knew?

On top of all those lesser excuses, I’ve been incredibly busy being in love. Urban & I have been together for 17 years or something; now and then we’re ambushed by infatuation and can hardly tear ourselves away from each other. We stay up too late, have long deep conversations, make kissy faces, ignore our friends and exist in a goofy, magical bubble of our own. We stagger around feeling dazed, neglecting everything but each other. It’s awesome. And, right now, unexpected.  

When I’m in pain for a long time, it wears us both down. I’m shaky and exhausted for obvious reasons but it’s also a strain on him. Here are some things I can’t do when I’m in pain and/or doped up from being in pain: the dishes, feed/turn out/bring in the horses, cook dinner, drive myself anywhere, run errands, mow the lawn, weed the garden, vacuum, change the sheets, do laundry…and so on. When I’m not well, Urban picks up where I leave off, often after he’s worked a 10 hour day and not gotten enough sleep because I’m worse at night and he hates leaving me alone when I’m suffering.

Normally, by this point in my pain cycle, we are strained, crabby, and making an appointment to see our marriage counselor. But none of that is happening. Instead, Urban is being incredibly sweet and unbelievably strong: taking care of me, taking care of our animals and 10 acre property, keeping track of everything, and doing it all with grace and verve. He humbles me.

So despite the pain and the angst that inevitably accompanies it, we’re ridiculously happy. I’m sure some of that is because we are already missing each other: we’re going to be apart for 8 weeks while I’m visiting family & attending Summer Session out East. 

I’m both dreading and looking forward to the semester. I’ll admit that I’m worried about my ability to keep up with work and writing commitments and school while my body is screaming at me (SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN, SAUM! TAKE A NAP! STOP MOVING AROUND YOU BITCH, THAT HURTS!). But I love the luxury of being in a classroom rather than taking classes online, the challenge of Summer Session (16 week courses crammed into 7 weeks), and, face it, the libraries at Harvard are heavenly. Nerdvana! Besides the academic stuff, being in Cambridge is lots of fun, and I’m excited to (re)connect with some wonderful people I know in Boston, as well as make new friends. I resolve to socialize more and not to push myself so hard at school. I’ll let you know how that goes.

What I’m not resolving to do is blog here at NSOMNIASAUM. If I blog, I blog. If I don’t, I don’t. If you miss me, you can keep up with my rambling at State of Formation and Huff Post Religion. I’ll see you on Facebook and Twitter. You can call, too; anytime! You know me…I’ll probably be up.

Wait, who am I again?

I was sitting outside at Café Rose Nicaud on Frenchman Street, scribbling notes about my last meeting when I caught a glimpse of someone running toward me. I instinctively clutched my purse and looked up as a young woman dashed across the street, stumbled to a stop in front of me, and (loudly) blurted out “OH MY GOD! You’re that religion lady, right?” Since she was looking right at me, and I could indeed be identified as having something to do with religion, there didn’t seem to be any way to deny this.

People at neighboring tables were craning around to see what was going on, and a group of tourists paused to gawk.

“I thought it was you!” She said, “Tell me about religion!” 

I had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. I vaguely wondered if she had mistaken me for someone else, but she said she recognized me from my headshot at The Huffington Post, and seemed to know a little about my writing and Interfaith work. She was VERY excited to meet me and I was worried she was going to ask for my autograph or something. I was still trying to figure out how to respond to “Tell me about religion.”

I was pretty confused by her enthusiasm…I mean, I’m a religion blogger and whatever. Not really a celebrity-forming line of work. Luckily, she did most of the talking, and after a few minutes, she thanked me and left. (She had obviously been drinking, but was really sweet.) 

I was simultaneously weirded out at being recognized by a stranger; slightly embarrassed by the onlookers studiously looking elsewhere while clearly listening in; pleased that someone thought my work was so cool; and baffled by “Tell me about religion,” --which I as yet have no idea how to respond to.

It all happened very fast, so I was still befuddled when the guy at the table next to me leaned over and asked “So, who are you?”

I opened my mouth and this is what came out:
“I don’t know.”

Being Smart: A True Story

I am working on a post that isn’t quite ready, so in the meantime, I am going to tell you story. 

It is a true story.

*   *   *

Once, a lady decided to go back to college and finish her undergraduate degree. It was not enough for her to go to a regular college, so she got into Harvard.

She was surprised.

Before that, she had attended a small Community College. When she graduated with her Associate of Arts Degree and a 4.0 GPA, someone remarked that it couldn’t have been very difficult as it was just Community College. Even though many, many other people said nice things and assured her that she was bright and intelligent, she always wondered.  

Now, she thought, it is not just Community College. It is Harvard. I will find out if I am smart or not.

It was a long journey to Harvard, and she had to fly into the worst airport in the world, Logan in Boston. Then she had to take a taxi to Harvard and find her dorm, get an ID, and figure out many things. She had to eat cafeteria food.

On her very first day on her way to her very first class, she was overwhelmed by the Harvard-ness of it all. The trees, the buildings, the harried-looking students! The Harvard Lampoon building!  Harvard Yard! The statue of that guy in a chair! The dining hall that makes Hogwarts look like an underfunded public school!



It was exciting, but she worried that she wasn’t smart enough.

On the very first day in her very first class, her (Linguistics) professor casually mentioned an ongoing debate (regarding Linguistics) that he had with his colleague Noam Chomsky, who taught over at MIT. Holy crap! The lady nearly swallowed her tongue. Not only was she being taught (and graded) by someone who KNEW Noam Chomsky, she being taught (and graded) by someone who DISAGREED WITH HIM TO HIS FACE. Noam Chomsky, the Father of modern Linguistics. It’s like having a disagreement about science with your buddy Einstein. TO HIS FACE. 

Her Harvard-high plummeted when it became clear, on the very first day in her very first class, that the professors were very intimidating and the work was extremely challenging. She was even more concerned that she wasn’t smart enough, but she was determined to try and find out.

As she left the building after class, a flyer caught her eye. Salman Rushdie (one of her heroes) was giving a lecture over at MIT later that week. As she stood there, gazing at the colorful array of flyers and notices, she found herself thinking…huh. Salman Rushdie, over at MIT. Noam Chomsky, over at MIT. Oh my God. All the cool people are over at MIT! What am I doing at this cut-rate, second-class school? If I was really smart, I would be at MIT.

She felt terrible. This whole place was clearly a sham: no wonder they let her in; she wasn’t smart at all. But maybe, just maybe, if she could get into MIT…perhaps for Grad School…

As she trudged back to the dorm, she suddenly realized how silly she was being. It took a few blocks.

So it was, that on her very first day after her very first class, the lady admitted that she really wasn’t very smart…just not in the way she originally suspected.

*   *   *

Yes, of course that’s me.

I tell the story now and laugh at myself, but it’s an uneasy laugh…because even though I recognize the foolishness and danger of that kind of thinking, sometimes I can’t help myself from doing it.

I’m always a little suspicious that I’m not doing enough. Or that I’m not quite smart enough, or whatever. It seems that the minute I accomplish something, I conclude it was not worth much, and immediately start seeking the next hurdle…hoping that once I achieve that, I will feel I have achieved something. It never works; there’s this thing about trying to find happiness on the outside rather than within bla bla bla you know how it goes.  

The good news is: I do learn. The inner critic is quieter. I try to appreciate my accomplishments-- even bask in them a little. I am getting smarter about the things that matter.

But ok, ok, I’ll admit it, although after sharing that personal fable and tidy moral lesson, it is a bit embarrassing: my GPA at Harvard is 4.0.

I mean, it’s a good school and all, but there’s only so much it can teach me. I’m still struggling with the really hard lessons.

Namesake

(You can also read a more coherent and informative explanation of Shivarathri by my friend and colleague Anju.)



It’s Shivarathri—the Hindu festival of Shiva, Lord of the Himalaya, bringer of change, definer of contradictions: he is both detached ascetic and passionate sensualist, a flesh-and-blood man and a nebulous idea. He has a thousand and one names, and no name at all. He walks amid ancient civilizations on the banks of the Ganges and runs fierce in uncharted wilderness. He is the Lord of Animals and keeper of human hearts.  He is death and healing. Shiva dances amid flames, his long hair whipping around him, his drum a blur of savage sound, yet he sits eternally silent in stillness. He is an arrogant warrior that howls with a demon horde and a gentle sage who speaks quiet wisdom in heaven. He is the space between moments.

Live cobras are his adornments but he sits upon the striped skin of a dead tiger. He is arcane and recognized, shadowed and bright. Notorious and respected, perfect and flawed. Imbued with light and too dazzling to look at, he is only revealed in darkness.

He is celibacy and fertility: an impulsive, temperamental lover and a faithful, patient husband, a nomad and householder. The Goddess pines for him, her love unrequited; he throws himself at her feet. His love for her almost destroyed him, the Destroyer. Beholden to none but answerable to all, beyond existence but rooted in the soil of our world. He is the remote sweep of the Himalaya and the lush immediacy of the jungle. He is a bastard and a saint, brutality and compassion. Lord of the dark night, a crescent moon rests above his brow. Shiva is reveler and revealer, unraveler. My life-long patron.

I am named for the moon. Saumya: as gentle and serene as the moon. If you know me, you’re laughing.

The Deodar (Himalayan Cedar), is sacred to Shiva. They are second only to Redwoods in height. This is a rare “Trishul” Deodar, which represents Shiva’s trident.

Shiva moves me and stills the world. I am always sleepless around Shivarathri. Some degree of insomnia is my natural state (there’s a reason my blog is called nsomniasaum!) but in this month when the snow is heavy on the ground and the moon is waning away to nothing, sleep seems to abandon me completely. I feel called to wander, to dwell, to think late and deep. While my work is a natural extension of my spiritual principles, right now I feel the call of the primal. I lose interest in my responsibilities; it’s a struggle to stay hitched to reality. Last year I had the sense to take a vacation around Shivarathri: the jungle in South America was the perfect complement to my urges and mood. This year I am faced with an overflowing inbox, numerous half-completed tasks and a growing, growling restlessness. Rather than follow my instincts, I have stubbornly (and half-assedly) been bumbling around and trying to get stuff done. I did just take about a month off of work to have and recover from surgery, so there are pressing worldly matters to attend to.

But slowly, surely…my motivated, practical and driven nature is subsumed by the mystic in me.  I want to withdraw, to walk forest paths and follow my thoughts, to hear the wind and the wildness. I feel myself simultaneous rising beyond and sinking into myself. There is no stopping it.



The paths to my forest may be snowed in, but I don’t need my body to wander. My thoughts are sometimes wildfire, other times as quiet as the sky. Again and again, an ancient chant tolls in my mind:

Om Namah Shivaiya: Praise to Lord Shiva. I am the namesake of the moon in your hair: the crescent, cupping darkness. We are the same.

This is my current truth: I am the object of my own longing. Everything I reach for is contained within me. I am responsibility and chaos, fetters and freedom, spirit and flesh. Ever changing and never changing. Shiva and Saumya. The river full at my feet, an empty moon above. Darkness lights my way.