There has been a lot of
talk about self-responsibility of late -- most of it from politicians.
This is not a political post. This blog is about relationships,
after all, and the one I've had with my body all these years has been no less
problematic than the one with my mother. (That's another post).
I once told my
psychologist that I thought of myself as a 'free-floating brain' resentfully
tethered to a corporeal anchor, a.k.a. my body. I like my body fine.
I just forget that it's attached. The "Me" I think of is
my thoughts. I go about happily thinking, pondering, solving, examining,
considering and then BAM! something happens to my body and I have to stop my
vaporous existence and pay attention. This jerking into the
three-dimensional world happens even more now that I am in my 50's. In
the last five years I have had to stop thinking in order to take care of acid
reflux (GERD), overactive bladder (OAB) and now Temporomandibular joint disorder (TMJD).
During each of these
interruptions I've done what most health-conscious people would do: I went to
my primary care physician; I took prescribed medications that caused unwanted
side-effects (Prilosec, Nexium, Enablex); I ratcheted up to a specialist (gastroenterologist, urologist, neurological
dentist); I had expensive tests (endoscopy, CT Scan, MRI) I researched my
malady on the internet and read lots of badly spelled first-person accounts of
similar problems; I complained to anyone who would listen; I had a good cry or
two and, finally, I realized that the medical profession didn't know
everything. As much as I like my doctor of 25 years, he didn't have the
time or knowledge to do more than treat symptoms. Specialists, though at
a higher price point, still evaluated me based 'on the curve'. In each
case, it wasn't until I stopped believing everything a doctor told me that I
got better.
Instead, I started from
scratch, taking bits of advice from several resources, trying this or that and
compiling results. In the case of the
acid reflux I learned that my digestive tract just couldn't handle processed
foods on a regular basis and that eating after 7:00 PM was not a good plan.
Overactive bladder? I drink so much water you wouldn't believe and
I stay away from white wine, cheap beer and grapefruit juice – all triggers. I now manage both without medication.
Now, this
TMJD thing has me on the ropes. I have seen countless dentists and spent
an outrageous amount of money trying to stop my mouth from burning. Once
again, I am tweaked and manipulated by experts.
I spend another sleepless night struggling with the prosthetic I wear
and cringing at the idea of braces for the second time in my life. I’m hearing one thing from the dentist,
another from the chiropractor who agrees with the triggerpoint therapist and on
and on and on while the dollars mount.
Then it hits me that I have totally ignored the most successful expert
–- me.
GROAN! This
is not easy. I am too tired and old and
preoccupied with Words With Friends
to deal with this. I want to hand over
the control to someone else. Can’t
someone just know the answer and fix this?
I cry and fret and even pray a little.
Then I remember my vagina.
Back in
the day, when I became sexually active, the Pill was a miraculous gift. My doctor wrote out the prescription for that
early, heavy estrogen version that all women were taking in the late 70’s. I was still living with my parents and hid
the dated dial container in an empty eight-track tape. I felt so free, so liberated and so deathly ill
from side effects, mostly nausea. So I
researched other methods in my raggedy copy of “Our Bodies, Our Selves” and hit
upon the diaphragm. Yes, it was a bit ‘retro’
but so was I and once fitted out, I became confident in its effectiveness. However, when I told other women that I used
a diaphragm, almost all of them screwed up their faces in disgust -- not
because it was ‘messy’ but because they had to TOUCH THEMSELVES.
Allow me
to break this down for the uninitiated: The diaphragm is a pink, latex yarmulke with a
spring in the rim. You squirt some
spermicide in the dome and fold it over like a taco. Then, you slide it in your vagina carefully
hooking the spring edge under your pelvic bone.
This is done BEFORE sex. After sex
you wear the diaphragm for another eight hours before you remove it in much the
same way it entered. Still with me?
Unlike
those other girls, I felt very proud of myself. I was grateful not to take
hormones every day for something that didn’t happen every day and I learned
where my cervix was – you know, just in case there was a pop quiz… or something.
The point
IS, while I still have an ambivalent relationship with my body and, yes, I want
someone to just fix this thing when it annoys me, I also know that’s not going
to fly. No, it’s down to me, to educating
myself, asking a lot of questions and listening to my body AND my mind. Here goes.
