"There's not a day that goes by that I don't picture myself taking a knife to my pain and cutting it out of me. " N.M.
He said this in my chair today. He had been suffering for over a year now. Abdominal rupture. He's younger than me. I swiftly brushed a tear that spilled out of my eye. I'm not a crier but I have a relation to my 5 'o' clock client today and he is braver than I to tell someone about it. Our ailment isn't seen to the eye. Afraid that it will make us look weak, leave us lonely, and unable. If I could draw a picture it would be so dark and constant and deep. Fuck chronic pain.
My name is Sarah Adams, and I suffer from chronic pain.
This is me working on the international platform as an artist for American Crew.
This is my beautiful and very busy Beauty Salon in Portland Oregon.
77 Salon
It was the morning of my baby shower August of 2010, nearly two years ago. A beautiful sunny day. My route was usual as I had to pop down to the salon and grab a liter of shampoo and conditioner for my best friend Kerry. She was throwing me the shower along with our other bestie Jennifer. I had packed 70 plus champagne glasses in the back of my white Subaru wagon. The boxes were musty. I had saved them from my wedding day. I remember feeling strong, healthy, and as ready as one ever could be to bring their first baby into the world. I had purchased 77 Salon merely 9 months previous. Yep, fierce was oozing from this woman.
Fierce but not unstoppable. A silver orb type flicker of light was the only thing I saw before the crack. The blast of the airbag pounded my face and the steering wheel buried into my belly sending my baby to a somersault in my womb. Smoke filled my lungs. Somewhere in the rotation and flight I lost my consciousness. The music seemed loud as I awoke. "99 problems and a bitch ain't one." Today I can laugh in the irony of that. I squeezed one eye open. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. A water bottle jammed between the dash and the windshield. A musty box had migrated and the airbag a reminder. My baby. My problem was that I couldn't move. I think it was the driver of the other car that opened my car door. He shouted to me asking if I was OK. Saying over and over, " I'm so sorry. I ran a red light, I'm so so sorry." In my confusion and the primal need for air I swung my leg out and coughed and wretched to clear my lungs. He took in a single shrieking breath and let out a terrified gasp as he fumbled backward, " You're... pregnant." so pregnant.
Here is a picture of my car. The front end swayed over a foot.
"The baby is in breech." The emergency nurse said. What? Lucky I wasn't in labor but my baby was in a normal position just that morning. I was sure of it. " It happens sometimes in trauma, it's a natural protection response for him to move out from the birth canal if it is not safe." I know it happened when he hit the wheel. I am all of 5'2" and his every move at that point in pregnancy had been intense enough to rock me, sending a wave of nausea, or sending me running to the bathroom to pee. Either way, they took X-rays and watched baby and I for hours. Friends were notified and called off for the baby shower. Shock eventually wore off and the days got shorter from there. They took the baby via Cesarean at 37 weeks on September 30,2010 I became a mom. Healing now from a major car accident and an abdominal surgery. We named him three days after he was born. A strong name, Cash Adams.
Six treatments a week I had started before he came. The pain was intense and mocked my every move as the muscles damaged were just the ones that earn my living. They became the muscles that held my new baby as I breast fed. Acupuncture, massage, chiropractic, stretching, physical therapies of different sorts. Eastern medicine, Western medicine, upside down and sideways I've tried and tried to get better. I wonder how the doctor suggests I run this dog and pony show while on Flexeril, Tramadol, and Oxys. I've lost friends to those pills. I don't feel safe being high and caring for my toddler. It's not safe. Two years later and my muscles have splinted themselves to protect me from further damage. A new massage therapist said to me just last week, " I just want to remove your shoulder girdle, unravel it, and put it back on for you." I just blinked, void.
I have hardened at 30 years old. And I too like my client, take a mental hacksaw to the parts of me that are hurting every day.
There are so many normal things that I can't feel because of the amount of pain that fills my cup. It runneth over. That was the tear. A little spill like a warning that it's getting harder to hold it.
My son can't see me give up. My staff needs me to be strong. My clients don't even know. My husband suffers because there is nothing left for me to give him most days. I'm afraid, and weak, and my pain makes me feel alone even though I am not. Certain abilities I have had to let go of completely. Luckily, some parts of my creative brain refuse to attach to this blackness. I sift through loamy soils and grow veggies to nourish myself and my family. This "Dirt Therapy" offers tangible results as does getting on a plane and cutting hair, somewhere else, cultivating inspiration with my shears in a place where the rest of the pressures aren't there.
As with many other things in my life I've feared and faced, this too shall pass. I'm thankful for the few so weightless moments in my life. The sanctity in my husbands strong eyes and sweet smile, both of which he gave my baby boy. The blessing of family and close friends, many of which this will be the aha as to why my glimmer seems so shy lately. I never underestimate the power of quiet, or a good laugh, or cry. In time, the artist in me will take flight on the thermals of creativity and take my body to a better place.
Love, peace, and hopeful prayer.
Sarah
