LiteraryPumpkin
12-01-2002, 02:53 AM
A SEPARATE PAIN
Got a minute? Actually, we could be talking 10 minutes.
I’m asking you to come along with me. Where are we going? Into a dream, my friend, my dream.
OK. You ready?
The Setting:
It is Thanksgiving evening. We go to a house and inside are my relatives, including in-laws. Now, the only people there that are not family are you (you are invisible by the way) and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Dinner is finished. Everyone is taking turns telling stories about their closest brush with death.
People are standing around Arnold (how strange is that?) and he is talking (big surprise there too, huh?).
Arnold: “Yah, Yah, I ended up vith 3,513 stitches!”
Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”
My cousin Gary: “Say Arnie, tell us more about the surgery.”
Arnold: “Yah, OK. Dey cut my chest open vith a power saw.”
Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”
Arnold: “Yah, vel, ven I voke up, it hurt very much!”
My cousin Debbie: “Didn’t they give you pain killers?”
Arnold: “Yah, vel, I’m a bawdy builder and I don’t vant no drugs.”
My Aunt: “What did you do?”
Arnold: “Yah, vel, Mahreeah gave me a leather strap to chew on.”
Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”
Finally, ‘Arnie’ finishes and the group looks at me.
Me? What was the question Again? Oh yeah, brushes with death. What do I say?
Maybe this:
“I thought I was a goner last week. I was in terrible pain. I was on the toilet so long that I became worried that someone would stop me later in the day and say: “Hey buddy, is that a toilet seat in your back pocket, or are you just shaped that way?”
My God, I can’t say that!
I look at the crowd. “They’re waiting”, I muse.
OK, OK. THINK.
I know, I’ll just tell them the honest truth. I want to rehearse it in my mind before I say it however.
“Last night, I thought I was going to die. I can tell you this: there were times when I wished I were dead. Here I am on the toilet with cramps and gas from hell. I’m rocking back and forth as wave after wave of pain makes me want to scream. I was so convinced that I was dying that I sang the entire first verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Well, as best I could under the circumstances.”
There is a soft knock on the door, my wife asks: “Are you singing in there?”
I say, with great care so as to not sound in as much pain as I am, “Oh yeah.”
“My!, aren’t we the happy one tonight!”, she says as her voice trails off down the hall.
“There is silence, my pain gets better and then WHAM! It’s so bad that I start to cry. I’m a man. I don’t cry, certainly not over stomach cramps. I’m also a liar because I am crying: big tears falling on my legs. I start to pray: Please God, don’t let me die on the toilet, not the toilet! A car wreck, perhaps a plane crash, but not on the toilet, pleasssssse!”
...Soft knock on the door
“Russell, are you talking to yourself?”, my wife asks.
“Just reciting the Gettysburg Address, dear”, I say ..
.. but the ‘r’ is clipped because of a stomach cramp. Then I say (in a voice too low for my wife to hear), “What the hell is four score and 7 anyway?”
“I’ve been through this crap (pardon the pun) a thousand times and every time I can’t believe how much it hurts. I keep hoping that the last wave was the worst one, then it isn’t. THE BIG ONE COMES. I pray again, “I cannot take this, I just can’t, kill me! Please God.”
.. Soft knock on the door
“Honey, it’s 87”, my wife says.
“Uh, What?”, I retort.
“Four score and 7”, she responds, “It’s 87.”
“So, here I am: my pants are around my ankles, I’m on a toilet asking God to kill me and I start laughing. I am in awful pain and still, I’m laughing my ass off (pardon the pun)! How ironic life is, how sublimely ironic. Then, something simply amazing happened: I realized that I felt good about myself as a person. I knew that it wouldn’t last so long I savored the moment.”
OK, that is the story that I will tell.
I look at the group. They have grown impatient for my response.
I say, “My closest brush with death?”
"The time I rode all the way to San Antonio with my brother-in-law John at the wheel. The longest prayer I ever said in my life.”
Everyone laughs. Someone slaps me on the back and says, “Good one, Russell.”
I look at Arnold, wink and say, “Hasta la vista …. baby.” Then, I spin and go out the door. You go with me because this is my dream. What can I say?
What a smaltzy exit!
Say! I like this dream! Wait a minute: Am I leaving my own house?” Dreams are so unspecific. I hate that about dreams.
Now, I’m outside and it’s a beautiful night! I can see my breath in the brisk night air, a dog barks in the distance. I look at the street and I see my Nissan pick-up truck. Are you kidding me? This is a dream and I'm driving that old Nissan?!!!!!!!”
Just then, an old familiar feeling came upon me. I felt sharp pain in my gut. I knew that I would wake up in a few seconds and that I would stare in the darkness until (and if) the pain subsides and allows me to sleep again.
As I ascend to consciousness I get the feeling that someday I will feel good about myself again. Perhaps I will even be proud of how I endured humiliation and pain, perhaps. As if I were verbalizing a wish, I say, “Some day soon I hope, some day soon.”
Suddenly we’re awake. Remember: you are with me.
My wife is peppering me with questions: “What’s wrong? Are you alright? You were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming?”
“I’m OK dear”, I lie. “Yes, I was dreaming. I will tell you all about it .. soon, some day soon.”
Pumpkin
Got a minute? Actually, we could be talking 10 minutes.
I’m asking you to come along with me. Where are we going? Into a dream, my friend, my dream.
OK. You ready?
The Setting:
It is Thanksgiving evening. We go to a house and inside are my relatives, including in-laws. Now, the only people there that are not family are you (you are invisible by the way) and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Dinner is finished. Everyone is taking turns telling stories about their closest brush with death.
People are standing around Arnold (how strange is that?) and he is talking (big surprise there too, huh?).
Arnold: “Yah, Yah, I ended up vith 3,513 stitches!”
Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”
My cousin Gary: “Say Arnie, tell us more about the surgery.”
Arnold: “Yah, OK. Dey cut my chest open vith a power saw.”
Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”
Arnold: “Yah, vel, ven I voke up, it hurt very much!”
My cousin Debbie: “Didn’t they give you pain killers?”
Arnold: “Yah, vel, I’m a bawdy builder and I don’t vant no drugs.”
My Aunt: “What did you do?”
Arnold: “Yah, vel, Mahreeah gave me a leather strap to chew on.”
Crowd (my family): “Ooooooh! Wow!”
Finally, ‘Arnie’ finishes and the group looks at me.
Me? What was the question Again? Oh yeah, brushes with death. What do I say?
Maybe this:
“I thought I was a goner last week. I was in terrible pain. I was on the toilet so long that I became worried that someone would stop me later in the day and say: “Hey buddy, is that a toilet seat in your back pocket, or are you just shaped that way?”
My God, I can’t say that!
I look at the crowd. “They’re waiting”, I muse.
OK, OK. THINK.
I know, I’ll just tell them the honest truth. I want to rehearse it in my mind before I say it however.
“Last night, I thought I was going to die. I can tell you this: there were times when I wished I were dead. Here I am on the toilet with cramps and gas from hell. I’m rocking back and forth as wave after wave of pain makes me want to scream. I was so convinced that I was dying that I sang the entire first verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Well, as best I could under the circumstances.”
There is a soft knock on the door, my wife asks: “Are you singing in there?”
I say, with great care so as to not sound in as much pain as I am, “Oh yeah.”
“My!, aren’t we the happy one tonight!”, she says as her voice trails off down the hall.
“There is silence, my pain gets better and then WHAM! It’s so bad that I start to cry. I’m a man. I don’t cry, certainly not over stomach cramps. I’m also a liar because I am crying: big tears falling on my legs. I start to pray: Please God, don’t let me die on the toilet, not the toilet! A car wreck, perhaps a plane crash, but not on the toilet, pleasssssse!”
...Soft knock on the door
“Russell, are you talking to yourself?”, my wife asks.
“Just reciting the Gettysburg Address, dear”, I say ..
.. but the ‘r’ is clipped because of a stomach cramp. Then I say (in a voice too low for my wife to hear), “What the hell is four score and 7 anyway?”
“I’ve been through this crap (pardon the pun) a thousand times and every time I can’t believe how much it hurts. I keep hoping that the last wave was the worst one, then it isn’t. THE BIG ONE COMES. I pray again, “I cannot take this, I just can’t, kill me! Please God.”
.. Soft knock on the door
“Honey, it’s 87”, my wife says.
“Uh, What?”, I retort.
“Four score and 7”, she responds, “It’s 87.”
“So, here I am: my pants are around my ankles, I’m on a toilet asking God to kill me and I start laughing. I am in awful pain and still, I’m laughing my ass off (pardon the pun)! How ironic life is, how sublimely ironic. Then, something simply amazing happened: I realized that I felt good about myself as a person. I knew that it wouldn’t last so long I savored the moment.”
OK, that is the story that I will tell.
I look at the group. They have grown impatient for my response.
I say, “My closest brush with death?”
"The time I rode all the way to San Antonio with my brother-in-law John at the wheel. The longest prayer I ever said in my life.”
Everyone laughs. Someone slaps me on the back and says, “Good one, Russell.”
I look at Arnold, wink and say, “Hasta la vista …. baby.” Then, I spin and go out the door. You go with me because this is my dream. What can I say?
What a smaltzy exit!
Say! I like this dream! Wait a minute: Am I leaving my own house?” Dreams are so unspecific. I hate that about dreams.
Now, I’m outside and it’s a beautiful night! I can see my breath in the brisk night air, a dog barks in the distance. I look at the street and I see my Nissan pick-up truck. Are you kidding me? This is a dream and I'm driving that old Nissan?!!!!!!!”
Just then, an old familiar feeling came upon me. I felt sharp pain in my gut. I knew that I would wake up in a few seconds and that I would stare in the darkness until (and if) the pain subsides and allows me to sleep again.
As I ascend to consciousness I get the feeling that someday I will feel good about myself again. Perhaps I will even be proud of how I endured humiliation and pain, perhaps. As if I were verbalizing a wish, I say, “Some day soon I hope, some day soon.”
Suddenly we’re awake. Remember: you are with me.
My wife is peppering me with questions: “What’s wrong? Are you alright? You were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming?”
“I’m OK dear”, I lie. “Yes, I was dreaming. I will tell you all about it .. soon, some day soon.”
Pumpkin
Sponsor
Super Sarah
12-01-2002, 07:48 PM
Did your wife not notice that something was wrong with you when you were spending so long sitting on the toilet? Surely she suspected that you could have had an upset stomach or something?
Did you not tell your wife that you felt unwell with stomach pains?
Did you not tell your wife that you felt unwell with stomach pains?
LiteraryPumpkin
12-01-2002, 10:59 PM
Sarah (sorry for my long reply),
It's an allegory. It represents all the times that I tried to hide my IBS from her (before that, it was my parents). I grew up with this stuff. I'm a pretty bright boy and I got very good at hiding it. I might have even fooled you.
IBS is an humiliation to me (on an emotional level). It's not a 'clean, socially acceptable affliction' like 'Arnie's'. Of course, life isn't as simple as all that. Hence the reason that I express my feelings toward this disease with complex allegories and metaphors.
At age 12, I was literally crushed by OCD, a hideous disease. OCD is best described as a disorder of the brain, sometimes brought on by strep-throat, that leads to the misfiring of neuro-transmitters. I was simply unable to deal with both IBS and OCD.
So, denial and suppression were the rule of the day, or rather the rule of my adolescence. As I matured, I acquired the habit of singing when depressed and writing funny stories when in pain.
In the final analysis, stories like this do not reflect what I think, but rather unresolved feelings. By reading my story, you have helped me. Writing brings me happiness, something that these vicious illnesses could have stripped from me long ago. Thank You.
It's an allegory. It represents all the times that I tried to hide my IBS from her (before that, it was my parents). I grew up with this stuff. I'm a pretty bright boy and I got very good at hiding it. I might have even fooled you.
IBS is an humiliation to me (on an emotional level). It's not a 'clean, socially acceptable affliction' like 'Arnie's'. Of course, life isn't as simple as all that. Hence the reason that I express my feelings toward this disease with complex allegories and metaphors.
At age 12, I was literally crushed by OCD, a hideous disease. OCD is best described as a disorder of the brain, sometimes brought on by strep-throat, that leads to the misfiring of neuro-transmitters. I was simply unable to deal with both IBS and OCD.
So, denial and suppression were the rule of the day, or rather the rule of my adolescence. As I matured, I acquired the habit of singing when depressed and writing funny stories when in pain.
In the final analysis, stories like this do not reflect what I think, but rather unresolved feelings. By reading my story, you have helped me. Writing brings me happiness, something that these vicious illnesses could have stripped from me long ago. Thank You.
Super Sarah
12-02-2002, 06:55 AM
I hope you are managing to deal with your IBS now and I hope that you do share it with your wife when you are unwell with a bad stomach?
A lot of people have IBS and stomach problems and it is really nothing to be ashamed of. I too have stomach problems and like you have spent hours sitting on the toilet with stomach pains.
Why try and hide it now? If I am feeling unwell and my stomach is hurting I share this with my boyfriend who is real good about it. He will tell me to go and lie down and will bring me heat pads or will use oils and very gently massage my stomach for me till the pain is gone.
This has its compensations. My b/f does a great belly massage and this can really help you relax. Next time you have pains in your belly, why not tell your wife and ask her to massage/rub your belly for you? It is a great way of helping you to relax. Pressing into your belly can help to relax the muscles and get rid of gas and can release a lot of tension as we all carry tension in our bellies these days. I would have no hesitation in doing this for my b/f if he asked me to.
Take care
A lot of people have IBS and stomach problems and it is really nothing to be ashamed of. I too have stomach problems and like you have spent hours sitting on the toilet with stomach pains.
Why try and hide it now? If I am feeling unwell and my stomach is hurting I share this with my boyfriend who is real good about it. He will tell me to go and lie down and will bring me heat pads or will use oils and very gently massage my stomach for me till the pain is gone.
This has its compensations. My b/f does a great belly massage and this can really help you relax. Next time you have pains in your belly, why not tell your wife and ask her to massage/rub your belly for you? It is a great way of helping you to relax. Pressing into your belly can help to relax the muscles and get rid of gas and can release a lot of tension as we all carry tension in our bellies these days. I would have no hesitation in doing this for my b/f if he asked me to.
Take care