Rewired Life: a journey to untangle chronic pain and endometriosis

by Audrey Michel

Overview

Isn't it time to put your health first? To give yourself the gift of whole-body wellness?

What if embracing unconditional love and a life of self-care was the first step to wellness? Could you honor that for yourself?

The real challenge is looking inward and creating a practice to move past stress. Wellness is more than a one-dimensional approach. Healing takes work on our mind, body, and spirit. Wellness is a process to heal layers of physical and emotional pain, trauma, and stress.

Audrey Michel knows this from experience. She is an author, speaker, and spiritual growth coach who survived seventeen years of chronic pain and endometriosis. Audrey spent more than half her life learning to cope with pain and overcome symptomatic issues. Now pain- and symptom-free, she is passionate about listening to her body, honoring her body, and sharing her story to empower women to heal.

Join Audrey through her journey. Find inspiration and motivation to overcome your obstacles, climb your mountain, and define your path to love yourself, heal your body and mind, and celebrate life.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504338844
Publisher:	Balboa Press
Publication date:	10/21/2015
Pages:	158
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.37(d)

Read an Excerpt

Rewired Life

A Journey to Untangle Chronic Pain and Endometriosis

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By Audrey Michel

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2015 Audrey Michel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5043-3884-4

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CHAPTER 1

faster, stronger, better

Love yourself first and everything else falls into line.

– Lucille Ball

On days when chronic pain reared its ugly head, the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor was the most comforting. Most days of menstruation and ovulation felt like a shit-storm of awfulness. Menstruation was painful and exhausting, and ovulation caused stabbing back pain. I would have given anything to be anywhere but where I was. I dreamt of the day when the pain and endometriosis would be gone: My husband and I would go on an awesome vacation to celebrate — I couldn't wait for that day.

For twelve years, I used western medicine to help with chronic pain and endometriosis, relying on one drug or another to get through the day. Looking back now, I know I never felt well. There were times when I felt awful, and there were times when I felt better, but I never felt healthy. At the worst of it, I'd wake up to a solid dose of pain pills. eight hours of sleep equaled eight hours without prescription pain meds. Let me tell you, the growly bear angrily waking from its slumber was not pleasant. As I woke up, I needed the next dose, and it wasn't safe to get between me and those pills. Actually, it wasn't even safe to talk to me for at least an hour. I needed a swift kick in the ass — called Darvocet — to inch my way toward being awake.

As I peeled my body out of bed, gathered myself, made it to work, or whatever else was necessary for the day, I appeared to be a functioning human being. But I was on autopilot. Most of my actions were a blur. I probably should not have been driving, and I definitely needed to stop for a white chocolate mocha to jolt me into reality. Mornings mostly consisted of waiting for pain relievers to kick in and trying to remember what I was supposed to be doing. By noon, I'd have two more doses of pain pills — let's just call that lunch because I wasn't hungry anyway.

For the afternoon, I'd hit up more meds, maybe a muscle relaxer and some Prozac as I felt the irritation of the day intensifying. Late afternoon required a nap. Between exhaustion as a drug side effect and the exhaustion of suppressing pain and body tension, I was constantly running on empty. All I wanted was to flop on the sofa like a sack of potatoes. Don't even talk to me about doing anything past late afternoon; I was done! I used all my energy reserves to merely exist.

After waking up from my nap, I'd try to eat dinner, but nothing ever tasted good. By night, it was time for sleeping pills. Over-the-counter sleeping pills seemed to do the trick. I was glad not to be on prescription sleeping pills, too — all I needed was another addictive drug on the list. Doctors were already rotating my pain pills from the stand-by Darvocet to Bextra, Percocet, Naproxen, and Propoxyphene to prevent addiction. For really bad days, Vicodin or Meperidine would knock me out. I'd pop a couple of those bad boys and pass out. Sleeping equaled forgetting. I welcomed anything that kept pain from my consciousness.

My daily hormone regimen consisted of one of the first and stronger birth control pills on the market. I needed birth control to regulate timing, heaviness, PMS, and cramping from my period. Modern products contain fewer hormones since the average woman doesn't need high dosages. However, those things were like sugar pills to me; they never even affected the timing or symptoms of my period. Miserable. Without all the medication, my body wouldn't be capable of functioning properly — how else would it regulate itself? I had to have medicine. There was no other way.

By late 2007, the pain was in full force once again. History told me it was time for another surgery to eliminate new endometriosis growth and accumulated scar tissue. This would be my fourth laparoscopy. I called my doctor, said, "It's time," and scheduled the surgery and time off work for this regular maintenance. I remember strolling into the hospital thinking, No big deal. This will be like the last one. Get rid of endometriosis tissue and scar tissue and buy myself a few years of reduced pain.

Doctors found trace amounts of scar tissue, which they cleaned up, but no visible signs of endometriosis tissue. Typically, laparoscopy surgeries bought me three to five years of relief. My husband, Aaron, recalls viewing the post-surgery images that showed clean, healthy tissue. We should have been ecstatic. The endometriosis tissue was gone! wasn't that supposed to be my dream? Instead, Aaron was worried about my reaction. We both had been sure surgery was going to ease the pain. Not this time. with only trace amounts of scar tissue removed, where was the pain coming from? I thought, What am I supposed to do now? It didn't make any sense.

For years I had kept my OB-GYN in Omaha, Nebraska. No matter where I lived, I always returned home to see that doctor. He'd been taking care of me since I was a teenager. He knew me. I knew him. It was comfortable. If pain was building, I'd return home for surgery, recover for a few days, head back to wherever I was living, and get back to life.

This time was different. After the surgery, I returned to Denver. I was still in pain and supposedly free from endometriosis tissue. My doctor had done all he could do from eight hours away. Not a single physician in Denver knew my name. Over the next few months, I was stuck in a desperate, frantic cycle to find a doctor to fix me.

I remember one particularly awful day in early 2008. In pain and crying, I'd taken more pills than a 120-pound person ever should. Aaron was traveling for work, and my mom could only comfort me over the phone. My doctor in Nebraska didn't know why I hurt so badly and had nothing more to offer than telling me, "No more pain pills." And he didn't know any OB-GYNS in Denver to call in a favor. I was alone. I was scared. I was desperate. But this time desperate didn't mean resigned. It lit a fire under my ass. I researched every gynecologist in the city, picked out the perfect one, and made a phone call.

"We aren't accepting new patients at this time." Ugh — what the hell! Okay, my second choice physician would have to work. I called that office only to hear that new patient appointments were six to eight weeks out. OMG! I don't have eight weeks. I don't have eight days. I don't even want to think about feeling this way for eight more hours! I contemplated going to the emergency room, but they'd only do what they usually do — give me more pain meds. I'd already taken too many.

I called every gynecologist office within my insurance network and said yes to every waiting list. I called every hospital and got on their clinic waiting lists. I called my girlfriends for referrals. I even made Aaron ask the ladies at his office for referrals.

And then I passed out from exhaustion — and maybe a drug-induced coma.

I awoke to my phone ringing. Half asleep, I answered.

"Hello, is this Audrey?"

"yeah," I said, barely conscious.

"This is blah-blah-blah from the office of blah, I have you on our waiting list."

My eyes shot open.

She continued, "You aren't at the top of my list, but I feel like you could use some help."

I doubt anything intelligible came out of my mouth, and if it did I'm sure she couldn't understand it through my tears. She gave me an appointment for the next day.

I cried. And then I collapsed back onto my bed.

* * *

After finding an OB-GYN in Denver to see me, the next few weeks filled up with appointments, tests, and more tests to figure out why I was in so much pain. The new OB-GYN passed me along to an endometriosis specialist who came highly recommended and, at the time, seemed to be exactly what I needed. After an elongated discussion, he suggested Lupron shots, a series of injections that manipulate hormones and put women through medically induced menopause. The drug starves endometriosis cells of their life-blood: estrogen. The thought is that, without estrogen, the endometriosis tissue will not grow, and, best case scenario, the endometriosis cells shrink, leaving patients with less pain. The idea behind using Lupron at this point was that there must have been endometriosis tissue that the previous surgeon might have missed.

Once the specialist discovered this would be my third round of Lupron, he ordered a bone density test.

For real? My mind went into overload. I'm 27! I thought to myself, Bone density test? Not okay. I knew the hormone treatments were harsh — but osteoporosis? It turns out that one of the side effects of this medically forced menopause, as many women experience with actual menopause, is bone density loss and early onset osteoporosis.

During previous rounds of Lupron, I remember being aware of potential side effects, hot flashes, mood swings, etc. I was never too concerned about them; side effects were just another part of treating endometriosis. I thought the drug was helping me in the long run by stunting the growth of endometriosis, so I could overlook side effects. But this looming round of hormone treatments felt different.

It was my husband who spoke up. He told me he always hated what Lupron did to me and asked, "Do you know what that stuff looks like? A toxic, hot pink, magenta, nuclear concoction. It's got to be terrible for your body!" Never before had I really considered the effect on my overall health. I could deal with hot flashes and mood swings. But osteoporosis?

No.

This time Lupron didn't feel right. Now, thirteen years after my diagnosis, for the first time I was saying no to treatments that didn't make sense for me.

Previously, I would have said that Lupron and other medical treatments were successful. But could I really call it success if I was living déjà-vu for the fourth time? I was frustrated to hear the only option was to continue down the same treatment path.

Surviving the first thirteen years of the disease was a combination of numbing any feeling with western medicine's latest and greatest pain relief method, some crazy hormone concoction, and pretending I was fine. This all had seemed to work — but before I knew it, my daily regimen of medicine added up to well over a dozen pills. And I was taking medicine to deal with the side effects of other medicines. I no longer knew the difference between my own feelings or how one particular drug or another made me feel. I was in a constant fog, completely disconnected from myself, and completely unaware of that fact.

I was doing everything I knew to do — and not improving. I was at a dead end and feeling helpless. Actually, I was getting worse. The only thing I knew to do was to sleep. when I was sleeping, I couldn't feel. I checked out. When I was awake, I dropped into even more physical and emotional pain. I lost hope, and depression took control of my life. I did my best to put one foot in front of the other, put on a pretty face, and "get on with life." That is what I was supposed to do, right?

If doctors couldn't figure out why I was in so much pain, how much worse could it get? I was scared to know what the future would be like without medication. Think about it, if the pain level was around an 8 out of 10 with pain medication, could I imagine life without them? Pain could be at 50! What choice did I have? The potential to experience worse pain kept me tied to ever-expanding prescriptions. My belief that medications must be making me better compounded my fear of how bad it would be without them.

It was hard to wrap my brain around this: I was out of options. This was as good as it was going to get. What did this even mean? Looking back now, I have so many questions for myself. I was stuck in pain because I was scared of being well? Scared of what unmedicated pain might look like? Scared of not having pain as an excuse? Scared of not having pain tolerance as a badge of honor? Scared to know what was underneath all the pain? I can't help but wonder, What was this fear doing to me psychologically? How did this inability to see beyond medications affect my whole health?

How many times in your life have you felt stuck? Even more important, how many times have you been stuck and not even known?

My fear played a dangerous role in my declining health. I placed my need to be well in the hands of people who barely knew me–people who authentically wanted to help but only knew what my medical chart told them: long history of endometriosis and chronic pain. Doctors did what they were trained to do, and for that I am grateful. But it was time for me to take control of my health and my body and do what was best for me. I seriously had no idea what the hell that looked like, but I finally asked, "what else is possible? what else can I be doing?" I didn't realize it at the time, but my awareness and priorities were finally shifting.

For years I believed that my only option to get better was to do what the doctor said. I'm not sure if it was because I was a teenager when I was diagnosed or because I was from a small town where alternative medicine and second opinions were not available, but I had always followed the doctor's orders. No questions asked.

When none of the experts have answers, what are we supposed to do? What happens when we've done prescribed treatments and the pain is the same or even worse? These questions and situations can feel impossible.

Are there decisions being made for you when it comes to your health? Decisions that leave you feeling powerless? Are there treatments you are currently following that you don't feel good about?

For me, it was a slow transition to ask, "What else is available?" After saying no to Lupron, light bulbs began to turn on, and the walls blocking my vision slowly began fall like dominoes. I realized that conventional ways of thinking and conventional medical treatments no longer fit me.

Now I know abundant possibilities for improving health and wellness are alive within me and alive in the world. Becoming open to the idea that there was more to know sent a powerful message to my body, mind, and spirit. Being open to exploring what my body needs created curiosity and a need for exploration.

Wouldn't it be great if we were able to hear the messages our bodies are sending sooner? We can! I started the journey to understand what triggers me physically, emotionally, and mentally — this helps me see and hear when my body needs a change. For me the shift started with my first no and grew as I figured out how and why my body reacts in different situations.

CHAPTER 2

trauma and the great disconnection

The feeling of being disconnected from ourselves is often the most painful. We lose grounding. We lose our authenticity. The reason this is so painful is because our authenticity is the very foundation from which all meaningful change occurs.

— Brené Brown, I Thought It Was Just Me (but It Isn't)

Living with physical pain and emotional trauma is like looking through a zoom lens of a camera–zoomed in so close you can only see the details. My only concern at the peak of physical pain was surviving day to day. I couldn't see my future as any different than the current moment. The disease was at the forefront of my life, and it had taken over. Pain sucked any and all real joy out of me. I thought if I focused all my attention on making the pain go away, I could live a normal life. But all I could see was endometriosis and chronic pain. On one hand, I pretended to be fine and continued everyday life. On the other hand, I was depressed and tired of being tired.

I was also really tired of telling my tale, regurgitating my "endo stats," and continually answering repeated questions. What's your pain level? When was your last cycle? Did pain coincide with your cycle? Where was the pain located? Would you describe it as radiating, stabbing, throbbing, or continuous? How are you sleeping? what pills did you take on what day?

Once I finished telling nurses about every bowel movement, every detail of my last period, and reviewing mood swings to the point of bringing on another one, I still had to talk to the doctor. I never understood why the nurse and the doctor never spoke to each other prior to walking into my exam room. Wouldn't it be more efficient to review my answers? But no, no problem. I'll answer the same questions for a second time in the last fifteen minutes. I mean, I love talking about how wonderful and fabulous I've been feeling. Remember those mood swings we were talking about? ... Let's do talk about how shitty things have been lately.

One doctor after another, this nurse after that nurse — I continually relived the story of how broken my body had become. And all it did was reinforce how stuck I was in the situation, perpetuate the trauma, and force the situation back into my consciousness.

usually, my answer sounded like this, "Pain level of 10. I hurt all the time. I sleep all the time. And I continually take pills." I honestly didn't want to dig deeper into how I was truly feeling. How would it help anyway? I'd recounted my issues to dozens of healthcare professionals and still felt like hell. What more was there to know? The thought of really sitting with the pain, contemplating how it was affecting my daily life, and paying attention to it throb through my core and into my limbs made me depressed and angry. Couldn't we just stop talking about it? The faster we could talk through how shitty I felt, the better.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Rewired Life by Audrey Michel. Copyright © 2015 Audrey Michel. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Introduction, vii,
chapter 1 Faster, Stronger, Better, 1,
chapter 2 Trauma and the Great Disconnection, 9,
chapter 3 Perfect Pretender, 17,
chapter 4 The Cereal Bowl That Changed Everything, 25,
chapter 5 Layers of Pain, 31,
chapter 6 Reconnecting Wires, 41,
chapter 7 Inching into Alternatives, 49,
chapter 8 Looking at Gremlins, 55,
chapter 9 Cleaning Your Mental Closet, 67,
chapter 10 Money & Worth, 79,
chapter 11 Outside Stress, 85,
chapter 12 Shameful Identities, 95,
chapter 13 Unconditionally Me, 103,
chapter 14 Medical Sexual Trauma, 111,
chapter 15 Listen to Your Body, 129,
chapter 16 Heal vs. Cure, 139,
chapter 17 Celebration, Joy, Gratitude, 143,