No woman (or man) is an island

I have always prided myself on being fiercely (almost savagely) independent.  Emotionally, financially, physically.  Of course it would be easier, and less stressful, to have someone to depend upon for support in a number on ways, but circumstances have hardened me, forced me to become dependent on only me.  I live alone, a fair distance away from my closest friends and family.  The job market is not forgiving for those who want to stay put in one little five mile radius; I have had to move.  And move I have done many times.  This has ever improved my ability to self-serve.  Don’t get the wrong impression! I am not a Miss Havisham type; jilted by her man and nursing an inner grudge which destroys any chance of being stable with someone else by her side. Yes, I have not chosen to be alone, but modern life has dictated that, if I want any kind of career or sense of achievement, I have had to place full attention on this aspect of my identity, perhaps leading to the neglect of relationships.

Until recently, my life was simple: work, home, friends, family, more work.  It was simple for me to flit between these portions of life with ease.  I am independent in terms of transport and finance, so living far from my favourite people was not an issue.  Unfortunately, this has not remained the case.

Two years ago I started experiencing some discomfort in my lower back, resulting occasionally in muscle spasms and stiffness.  I visited my doctor on many occasions.  Each time I was prescribed pain-relief and some advice and sent on my way.  I tried a number of methods to prevent the pain: Pilates, core strengthening, swimming, walking, muscle soaks, tens machine, the prescribed pain relief, yoga, heat/cold packs, and balms.  I changed my routine and stopped lifting and twisting and bending.  But nothing seemed to work.  The pain progressed from every now and then to everyday, moving from lower back to hip to legs and back again.  I can only describe the experience as frustrating, worrying and annoying.  My life had changed.  Pain had slipped in and destroyed it.  No longer would I exercise every day, no longer did I wear heels, no longer did I go out at night or go on holiday. 

Eventually, after several visits to my local GP and frustrating attempts at physiotherapy, I was sent for an MRI scan.  It felt like a battle to get to this point, with constant excuses blocking my way: you’re too young; you’re abdominal muscles are just weak; you haven’t tried enough physio; the risks of an MRI are high.  I knew my body.  I knew that I wasn’t “just having some lower back issues”.  I became sick of the questions from friends, colleagues and strangers.  What did you do? Why are you walking funny? What’s wrong?  My identity was wearing away and the fit, healthy, independent image was fading.  Something had to change. 

The MRI scan happened.  My feelings of relief at being granted the privilege of being scanned quickly transformed into frustration at waiting for the results and, finally, upset when my GP advised I had to go back to physiotherapy.  Why wasn’t anything being done? I, a health and anatomy novice, could see from my scan that something wasn’t right! I have always been a supporter of the NHS and all the miracles they perform on a daily basis.  Staff are underpaid and undervalued and I believed they should be better rewarded, and still do, but I was now a patient subject to “the system” and this was just what I had to do.  “Follow the system” my GP told me.  So I did. 

After returning to physio (clambering out of my car, hobbling to the appointment and then, afterwards, dragging myself back to work) eventually my symptoms were assessed and finally diagnosed.  Two prolapsed discs, both causing nerve compression.  This was three months ago.

At this stage, I was happy to be diagnosed.  I wasn’t losing my mind! I wasn’t imagining the pain! The problem could be fixed!  Deep in the back of my mind, there are still traces of these reactions.  I dig them out on my darkest days when the pain is unbearable.  “This won’t be for forever” has become my personal mantra.  Three months from this revelation and I am awaiting surgery.  My independence has disappeared along with my happiness.  I am worn and tired and damaged.  I have gradually been forced to become dependent on others.  The Tesco delivery driver was the first.  Online shopping instead of my weekly meander around the aisles.  Cleaning was next to go.  I now rely on friends to hoover and dust my usually gleaming home.  Gardening.  That was a difficult one.  I now rely on my wonderful dad who travels 100 miles to cut my grass.  I spend days (and nights) on my own, clambering about inside my own four walls. They used to represent my independence in a positive light: I owned something all on my own.  Now I feel as if they are mocking me – “no woman is an island” they whisper to me silently. 

I know (I hope) my conditions will improve post op.  I know I am lucky not to have a life-long or terminal condition.  But in the moments of struggle and darkness, normality seems such a long way away.  So I have relented.  I admit that no person can be entirely independent.  We all, in our own ways, seek comfort, support and kindness from others.  Whether it be the Tesco delivery driver or the loving friend who hoovers around your feet while you sit, cushioned, typing on your laptop.