Hope (in a bottle)

"Courage is the mastery of fear, not the absence of fear." - Mark Twain

Disclaimer: Since my wonderfully sweet, red-headed partner in crime at my last job got me the most thoughtful going away/Christmas present, my posts will likely all begin with a relevant and poignant quote from someone far smarter than I. The English nerd in me was deeply inspired to share the musings of men, women, and even children, braver and more articulate than myself to greet you at the beginning of each post.

And a brief word about this dear friend, who we shall call "Ginger". I will keep this brief (to not insult others religious beliefs, at least not yet), but I am as active a Christian as a I can be at the moment, and perhaps even more spiritual that the Lutheran doctrine allows. I believe that God is the ultimate match-maker, and through His wisdom, brought Ginger and I together because we needed each other for emotional strength (and sometimes even physical strength) and courage. While I look forward to beginning a new chapter (tomorrow!), Ginger's kindness and compassion meant the world to me. And now, she has given me the gift of not only her words of wisdom, but the wisdom of the past. I look forward to continuing to share this wonderful gift with you, and to Ginger, thank you.

Just in case my continuing plagiarism inspires you to purchase the book, it's well worth it. 

Now, to elaborate on both the title of the post and the quote used: "Hope in a Bottle", and Mark Twain's thoughts on courage. I do not know if the mastery of fear is possible, and I know I, like many, many others, have a bit of work to do to even begin that journey. But in all fairness, Twain himself died of a massive heart attack after experiencing periods of deep depression, and had a deep fear birthed from Halley's Comet (which he found quite sinister). Perhaps he himself was unable to put theory into practice. To disagree with Twain (whose writings I don't particularly fancy, so I feel less guilty doing so), I don't believe it's the mastery of fear that defines courage - it's rather the ACCEPTANCE of fear. In our world, we are surrounded by terrifying probability and enormous risk of danger - global warming, terrorism, gun violence, car accidents, etc. Being aware of risk(s) and facing them with understanding and fortitude is a much more modern way to define courage.

Which leads me to my part in the story. After suffering for SEVERAL, EXCRUCIATING DAYS with a headache/migraine pattern that attached an invisible vice to my head and squeezed at randomly different intervals throughout the day (reserving a particular malice for evenings), I called my neurologist, daily and in near tears at work, begging for her to do something. Finally, she did do something, giving me a medication more terrifying than kepra and clonazepam combined.

The "P" word. In my anguish, when my doctor's nurse told me she called in a prescription to be picked up, I did not take special care to listen to what I was being prescribed (this is a novice mistake and I should've known better). That said, the desperation born from a migraine is a truly nasty thing. So, when my ever princely Thomas delivered it to me after work, I finally read the bottle, and there it was. PRETNISONE. 

We call this my "pre-roids face". The nearly sticking the bottle up my nose is the post-Kepra/Clonopin face.

According to WEBMD, Pretnisone "can treat many diseases and conditions, especially those associated with inflammation." In various medical communities, it's known as the "wonder-drug." It's been suggested to me several times just this year for shingles, hives, and stomach issues. In the Hurd family, it's known as the medicine that they gave Sarah that time in 11th grade when she came home from Lacrosse practice with a hideous rash, begged to go to the emergency room or be shot and buried in the backyard, who was taken to the hospital (the less bloody solution) and given a Pretnisone injection. The injection appeared on to exacerbate the allergic reaction, turning what was a localized rash into an entirely polka dotted body of angry pink hives. Additionally, the medication then turned me into the elephant (wo)man, causing my lips and ears to swell magical hues of purple and blue. With some hasty injections of benedryl, and then some more benadryl, I was finally able to go home, and suffered the rest of the week without trying to peel my skin off like a snake.

Since those awful two weeks of 11th grade, I always inform doctors about my prednisone allergy. I used to be so diligent that I wore a medical alert bracelet with the allergy on the front of the tag in bright red (now, I will need to get a new medical alert bracelet for the seizures). But, in that moment on Thursday, I do not believe my doctor ignored my medical chart or history; I believe my doctor made a judgment call, hoping the benefit outweighed the risk. And at 8 pm that night, down the Prednisone went. And my life has been better ever since. In addition to having no allergic reaction or medical complications, the side effects seem to be manageable (knock on wood). Slowly, the headaches are decreasing in frequency and severity, giving me some hope that Migralepsy is a more appropriate diagnosis (meaning, the seizures have a clear and obvious trigger). 

But Prednisone is not pretty. Before I go through the list of side effects, let me tell you about a fun little trip to Macy's in which I experienced the emotional clusterfuck that Prednisone can create. Unfortunately, in navigating the wedding registry process, Thomas (but mostly I) made some boo-boo's, including ordering two griddles (and ultimately receiving both), and ordering beautiful Ralph Lauren towels in a color that was poorly represented online, and turned out to be nearly indigo blue. We wanted to exchange them, and chose the Friday night before Christmas to do it (bad, bad timing). So we get to the registry department of Macy's, and the old lady in the bridal registry department ignored us for an extended period of time, despite having made direct eye contact with Thomas, and the two of us growing the volume of our voices to make our presence known. After standing there like idiots, and my steroid-filled anger escalating, Thomas leads me to a sweet older man in a service station who is going on break, but will send someone over. Well, over strolls the mean old woman who reprimanded us by saying she was "counting the money" and that "she wasn't ignoring us, she heard us talking." 

I would've broken her decrepit jaw into little pieces if Thomas wasn't there. Rage literally swept through my veins, followed by the alarming urge to burst into tears. Luckily, at least in that moment, I just stared, gaping mouth, and Thomas handled the rude interaction. Thomas then went to find a manager, while I walked into the little girls clothing department because I felt myself starting to cry.  I desperately wanted to go find the mean old lady and tell her everything; that I'm getting married in less than 50 days and am afraid of having a seizure at the wedding, that Christmas is in a hot second and it will be my first Christmas with my parents divorce and my sister's move to Florida, and, that everyone that comes up to her desk has both joyous and sad stories, and that a huge part of her job is to honor and celebrate a tradition that is crumbling in this country. I just wanted her to understand the hurt she inflicted. 

But I decided that my emotions were still wildly oscillating, and I chose not to seek her out. Instead, I found a quiet place to cry until I saw a sparkly Elsa dress, and thought of the future I could have, with my own little girl fondling the same sparkly fabric while holding my hand. This is a future made a little bit more real by the Prednisone which is working just a little bit more to help get me just a little bit better. To conclude the story, a lovely store manager wearing a Mickey Mouse sweater (this I took as a good sign) offered sincere apologies, asked the appropriate questions about the wedding (the one's the bridal consultant should've asked about the planning, the proposal, etc.), and gave us a gift card in exchange for the towels. We left the store, and we eventually, the sting of what happened faded away.

Seriously, the only magic in Macy's is Kate Spade. AVOID Macy's as a registry option, this anecdote was just ONE horror story of many. 

According to Healthline.com, the common side effects of Pretnisone (other than roid rage) include:

• confusion
• excitement
• restlessness
• headache
• nausea
• vomiting
• thinning skin or acne
• trouble sleeping
• weight gain.

So far, the biggest worry is weight gain, as eating disorder recovery is a nebulous and volatile process that is easily undone. I am afraid of gaining weight, of slipping back into the same habits that put me easily into the underweight BMI category, or never finding recovery, or forgetting that I want recovery.  But courage is knowing the risks, accepting these risks, and powering through them. I will be as careful as I can be about watching what I do (or worse, do not) eat, and know deep in the recesses of my brain that I can afford to gain some weight, which should help the crazy voices in my head that are screaming out against the risk. But I know it will be a struggle, and hope that the medicine is short term, especially since, once again, I only got about 5.5 hours of sleep (sleeplessness, while not at the top of this particular list, is one of the most common symptoms).

But there is hope in both this medication, and even more hope in my willingness to take it knowing the possibility of gaining weight. Resilience is something I am growing into, and my faith in God will help take me/drag me to a place of healing. Hey, sometimes a relationship with the Divine isn't pretty. Whether or not you believe in Christ, Allah, Buddha, etc, whatever guides you through life, I hope it's  a power that makes you feel agency, hope, and allows you to act with kindness and grace. There is so much pain in this world, and if that bridal saleswoman had any notion of kindness, she could've made one person feel a little bit less scared and alone. 

I will leave you with this astonishing video, and encourage you to listen to her message at the conclusion of the song. Whether it's God, Nature, karma, or just plain old love - know that you are beloved and that there is power in this season of giving in love, no matter what a mean old lady tells you. You are loved, and it is within your power to grow that love and share it with a world sorely needs it.