Ringing the chimes
The following is the description of Mankoski pain scale levels 8 and 9:
8 - Physical activity severely limited. You can read and converse with effort. Nausea and dizziness set in as factors of pain.
9 - Unable to speak. Crying out or moaning uncontrollably - near delirium.
I was en route to a modest libation in Boston when the Beast came to call. It started about halfway to Wonderland station, and I was stupidly deluding myself that it wouldn't get worse. It did. I pulled over, sent my regrets to my fellow quaffers and headed home. By that time I was blowing through level 8 and heading for 9, with about 25 minutes to go to get home.
The trouble with this, aside from pain that speaks for itself, is the agreement I made with myself several years ago. As I've said here before, when you have TN, none of the horrible labels people put on suicide really matter. It's just a treatment option. But my agreement is never, if possible, to put myself in a position where I might take someone else with me. It is a very short step from level 9 to level 10, which is unconsciousness. While most of my functioning right-brain consciousness was bearing down on just getting home, a small part was reproving myself for breaking the agreement. I could have-should have-turned around sooner. Too late for that, brain said: just keep enough concentration going to get home safely.
The wise head might say, "just stop and get help." I refer you to the description above: at 9, one can't talk, only moan involuntarily from a face contorted in the famous tic. From experience I can tell you that scares the crap out of laypeople. It's likely to get you a trip to the drunk tank, not the ER, from the cops. I should probably get a bracelet.
The self-reproach was enough of a distraction to get me nearly home, where the delirium almost caused me to miss my street. Five hours later I could take soup, lemonade and a heavy dose of anti-convulsants. Now, by the next morning, I can eat a little and write this.
Lesson learned. The current breakthrough, which seems to be courtesy of the dentist, is the worst I've had in several years. That means no non-essential driving during the six to eight weeks it will take to get this under control. That sucks, because I'm already fed up with semi-shut-in life. TN's remissions encourage false optimisim, and that makes us feel like this sort of thing won't happen again: but it always does.
8 - Physical activity severely limited. You can read and converse with effort. Nausea and dizziness set in as factors of pain.
9 - Unable to speak. Crying out or moaning uncontrollably - near delirium.
I was en route to a modest libation in Boston when the Beast came to call. It started about halfway to Wonderland station, and I was stupidly deluding myself that it wouldn't get worse. It did. I pulled over, sent my regrets to my fellow quaffers and headed home. By that time I was blowing through level 8 and heading for 9, with about 25 minutes to go to get home.
The trouble with this, aside from pain that speaks for itself, is the agreement I made with myself several years ago. As I've said here before, when you have TN, none of the horrible labels people put on suicide really matter. It's just a treatment option. But my agreement is never, if possible, to put myself in a position where I might take someone else with me. It is a very short step from level 9 to level 10, which is unconsciousness. While most of my functioning right-brain consciousness was bearing down on just getting home, a small part was reproving myself for breaking the agreement. I could have-should have-turned around sooner. Too late for that, brain said: just keep enough concentration going to get home safely.
The wise head might say, "just stop and get help." I refer you to the description above: at 9, one can't talk, only moan involuntarily from a face contorted in the famous tic. From experience I can tell you that scares the crap out of laypeople. It's likely to get you a trip to the drunk tank, not the ER, from the cops. I should probably get a bracelet.
The self-reproach was enough of a distraction to get me nearly home, where the delirium almost caused me to miss my street. Five hours later I could take soup, lemonade and a heavy dose of anti-convulsants. Now, by the next morning, I can eat a little and write this.
Lesson learned. The current breakthrough, which seems to be courtesy of the dentist, is the worst I've had in several years. That means no non-essential driving during the six to eight weeks it will take to get this under control. That sucks, because I'm already fed up with semi-shut-in life. TN's remissions encourage false optimisim, and that makes us feel like this sort of thing won't happen again: but it always does.
Labels: chronic pain, trigeminal neuralgia
posted by Uncle | 14:59
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