I took this picture 2 years ago today. Weird.
I did actually take this picture with my right hand - took me several tries before I got a good one. :) That's my left arm with my picc line in place (peripherally inserted central catheter.) It was put in by a surgeon with the help of an ultrasound and fluroscopy. It stayed in my arm - winding through my circulation to the entry point of my heart - for 6 weeks. It was used to deliver high powered antibiotics into my system in an attempt to treat the infection that has been plaguing me for 3 years now.
Last week I spent the day traveling to various farms to vaccinate horses. I have the horse days scheduled now so that we go to the same farms on the same day every year (as those farms are in the same area and close together.) Dr. Barton must have done those particular farms last year, because at every one of them this year they asked how I was feeling. They remembered me having this apparatus in my arm 2 years ago and had not seen me since.
Their questions reminded me about this picc line and all that went along with it. I remember seeing patients and doing surgery while receiving my medication via that cool little pressurized bulb thing you see there (really, that thing is genius!) Owners had no idea what was going on underneath my lab coat. :) One of my licensed vet techs would clean it and hook me up in the mornings. My husband would hook me up in the evenings. It took an hour for the meds to go in and then I would get un-hooked. :) Dr. Bowman would change my dressings once a week back in our clinic's surgery room with both of us wearing hats, masks, and gloves to prevent any bacteria from having entry directly to my heart. :) If I tried to sleep on my left side, my heart would start to flutter and beat erratically because the tip of the catheter would be pushed into my heart (which it obviously did not appreciate.)
I remember how much hope I had in this being 'the' fix for my infection. And I remember feeling good for the first time in a year while it was in. The pain finally left. The energy finally returned. And then, as suddenly as things changed, they changed back - within 5 days of stopping one of the antibiotics, I was back to where I was before I started. So frustrating.
I'm still not well, but I'm not as frustrated as I used to be. Not that I've accepted being sick. Not at all. I am still fighting to get well and doing all within my power to do so. But I am so much better now than I was then, that I'm emotionally able to still have hope. 2 years ago was hard. Really hard.
I worked with a client today that I met last year for the first time. He is a retired teacher and coach and overall really nice guy. He has a peripheral neuropathy that is undiagnosed. He's been to Hopkins, he's been to Mayo. No one can help him. He is in constant pain. We have only had that one conversation a year ago - but it was a long one.
When I saw him today I asked him "good day or bad day?" And he smiled. He then said 'bad day.'
But the smile was from being asked the question from someone who understands. The fellowship of the affected is a powerful thing.
Even though I am so much better now, I do not ever want to forget how bad it once was. Remembering the hopelessness - not knowing if there would ever be a relief from all of the symptoms - helps me to be grateful for each day I wake up able to walk up the stairs. It helps me to be grateful when I sleep through the night. It helps me to be grateful that I don't hurt all the time.
I have this tiny little scar on the inside of my left arm from this picc line. It's not very noticeable and I hardly ever look at it. I don't think anyone ever notices it. But the other day I had a client ask me about it. She only asked because she remembered when I had the picc in. She asked to see the scar it left behind.
She's a wonderfully kind and compassionate client that I consider a friend. She asked to see the scar because she cares about me. When she asked to see it, I was like 'it's not a big deal - it's just a tiny thing.' She responded 'the scar is small, but what it represents is not.'
There are some wounds and scars on my body that I don't mind pointing out to people and telling the story behind them. The first cat bite I received, for example, that left a tiny scar on the tip of my index finger on my right hand. It represents the promise I made to never let an animal suffer because of money issues. The scar on my right palm from running through a glass door when I was a kid (accident-prone, much?) that taught me to slow down a bit and pay attention to things like doors. :) The scar on my left hand that I got as a result of not following the rules that Dr. Bowman gave me (don't ever work on cow feet with your hoof knife without your leather gloves on!) All of those scars represent life experiences that left me with concrete life lessons learned the hard way.
This scar on the inside of my arm is different. I am not proud of it. I don't like to talk about it. I would rather pretend it did not exist. It does not invoke a memory of a lesson learned or a 'do this, don't do that again' directive.
It's just a scar.
But all scars represent something. And we all have them - whether visible or not. I was reminded of this during a conversation I had recently with a super good friend of mine.
I am not terribly good at noticing other people's wounds. It's way easier to just deal with what we are presented and not go any deeper.
But I am thankful that I have friends and clients who ask to see my scars. Though it made me uncomfortable, and I tried to make light of it, her concern and her statement that it was a big deal gave validity to the pain that was present when the scar was made. She gave validity to my struggle. And that was both wonderful and helpful.
Today, I hope I replicated that same act of kindness and gave validity to his struggle by asking my client if it was a good day or a bad day. I think just acknowledging that there is pain releases it's grip just a bit.
Letting others in to see our scars is scary and....unflattering. We humans are such prideful creatures.
And taking the time to care about someone else and offering compassion to their struggle is also not easy.
But both are good and right and wonderful and necessary.
That's why I share this with you.
I did actually take this picture with my right hand - took me several tries before I got a good one. :) That's my left arm with my picc line in place (peripherally inserted central catheter.) It was put in by a surgeon with the help of an ultrasound and fluroscopy. It stayed in my arm - winding through my circulation to the entry point of my heart - for 6 weeks. It was used to deliver high powered antibiotics into my system in an attempt to treat the infection that has been plaguing me for 3 years now.
Last week I spent the day traveling to various farms to vaccinate horses. I have the horse days scheduled now so that we go to the same farms on the same day every year (as those farms are in the same area and close together.) Dr. Barton must have done those particular farms last year, because at every one of them this year they asked how I was feeling. They remembered me having this apparatus in my arm 2 years ago and had not seen me since.
Their questions reminded me about this picc line and all that went along with it. I remember seeing patients and doing surgery while receiving my medication via that cool little pressurized bulb thing you see there (really, that thing is genius!) Owners had no idea what was going on underneath my lab coat. :) One of my licensed vet techs would clean it and hook me up in the mornings. My husband would hook me up in the evenings. It took an hour for the meds to go in and then I would get un-hooked. :) Dr. Bowman would change my dressings once a week back in our clinic's surgery room with both of us wearing hats, masks, and gloves to prevent any bacteria from having entry directly to my heart. :) If I tried to sleep on my left side, my heart would start to flutter and beat erratically because the tip of the catheter would be pushed into my heart (which it obviously did not appreciate.)
I remember how much hope I had in this being 'the' fix for my infection. And I remember feeling good for the first time in a year while it was in. The pain finally left. The energy finally returned. And then, as suddenly as things changed, they changed back - within 5 days of stopping one of the antibiotics, I was back to where I was before I started. So frustrating.
I'm still not well, but I'm not as frustrated as I used to be. Not that I've accepted being sick. Not at all. I am still fighting to get well and doing all within my power to do so. But I am so much better now than I was then, that I'm emotionally able to still have hope. 2 years ago was hard. Really hard.
I worked with a client today that I met last year for the first time. He is a retired teacher and coach and overall really nice guy. He has a peripheral neuropathy that is undiagnosed. He's been to Hopkins, he's been to Mayo. No one can help him. He is in constant pain. We have only had that one conversation a year ago - but it was a long one.
When I saw him today I asked him "good day or bad day?" And he smiled. He then said 'bad day.'
But the smile was from being asked the question from someone who understands. The fellowship of the affected is a powerful thing.
Even though I am so much better now, I do not ever want to forget how bad it once was. Remembering the hopelessness - not knowing if there would ever be a relief from all of the symptoms - helps me to be grateful for each day I wake up able to walk up the stairs. It helps me to be grateful when I sleep through the night. It helps me to be grateful that I don't hurt all the time.
I have this tiny little scar on the inside of my left arm from this picc line. It's not very noticeable and I hardly ever look at it. I don't think anyone ever notices it. But the other day I had a client ask me about it. She only asked because she remembered when I had the picc in. She asked to see the scar it left behind.
She's a wonderfully kind and compassionate client that I consider a friend. She asked to see the scar because she cares about me. When she asked to see it, I was like 'it's not a big deal - it's just a tiny thing.' She responded 'the scar is small, but what it represents is not.'
There are some wounds and scars on my body that I don't mind pointing out to people and telling the story behind them. The first cat bite I received, for example, that left a tiny scar on the tip of my index finger on my right hand. It represents the promise I made to never let an animal suffer because of money issues. The scar on my right palm from running through a glass door when I was a kid (accident-prone, much?) that taught me to slow down a bit and pay attention to things like doors. :) The scar on my left hand that I got as a result of not following the rules that Dr. Bowman gave me (don't ever work on cow feet with your hoof knife without your leather gloves on!) All of those scars represent life experiences that left me with concrete life lessons learned the hard way.
This scar on the inside of my arm is different. I am not proud of it. I don't like to talk about it. I would rather pretend it did not exist. It does not invoke a memory of a lesson learned or a 'do this, don't do that again' directive.
It's just a scar.
But all scars represent something. And we all have them - whether visible or not. I was reminded of this during a conversation I had recently with a super good friend of mine.
I am not terribly good at noticing other people's wounds. It's way easier to just deal with what we are presented and not go any deeper.
But I am thankful that I have friends and clients who ask to see my scars. Though it made me uncomfortable, and I tried to make light of it, her concern and her statement that it was a big deal gave validity to the pain that was present when the scar was made. She gave validity to my struggle. And that was both wonderful and helpful.
Today, I hope I replicated that same act of kindness and gave validity to his struggle by asking my client if it was a good day or a bad day. I think just acknowledging that there is pain releases it's grip just a bit.
Letting others in to see our scars is scary and....unflattering. We humans are such prideful creatures.
And taking the time to care about someone else and offering compassion to their struggle is also not easy.
But both are good and right and wonderful and necessary.
That's why I share this with you.
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