There is Light at the End

By Samantha Wyland

Edited by Tom Coombe & Greer McKenna

Preface:
I want to say a huge thank you to my friends and family that inspired me to write this and allowed me to include them in my story. Note: Names have been changed to protect their identity.

Sitting in my best friend Oliver’s cluttered kitchen I am drinking a glass of wine. There’s just enough space on the table to set it down. Although I am a total clean freak, this is my safe space. This family’s shit is leaps and bounds worse than mine, yet they were singing and dancing around the overcrowded house. My friend washed dishes while we chatted. My phone rang. It was my stepfather.

“Hi dear, sorry to bother you. What is my Apple ID?” he asked.

Luckily, I had it saved on my phone. “Your pet’s name and the year you were born,” I told him.

I turned back to my friend. “Sorry, my stepfather…”

“ I didn’t know you had a step-father” he exclaimed.

I replied “yes my parents got divorced when I was 16, my Mom dated a man battling cancer, they were married by the hospital chaplain and three days later he died. Two years later she married Bill. He is very cool, just not very tech-savvy.”

He fills my glass again. We had so many days like this. I looked forward to blowing his mind with my crazy life stories. Where should I start? Infancy, youth, young adulthood…
I often say I am like a cat in its eighth life. If I am still here at forty-two there must be a damn good reason. I have been staring death in the face since the womb, so a little thing like a pandemic is not too scary. I was born with a heart defect and had open-heart surgery at age 9 by the surgeon that invented the technique. It was a total success. I had a nervous tick since birth that prompted my doctor to suggest I enroll in ballet. That was the start of my dance career.

A different day, same house, same wine.

“That’s a pretty crazy hat you got from their girlfriend,” my friend teased.

“I need something to cover my bad ear in the cold” I counter back.

“Bad ear?” he asked.

“Yeah, I was in a jet ski accident when I was 18.” He sat next to me.

“I don’t think I have heard this story,” he replied.

“Yeah my family took a vacation the summer I turned eighteen. The lake in Ocean City, Maryland looked beautiful in the warm sun as we sat on the dock taking turns riding jet skis.
“You know how I am not much of a daredevil, right?” He smiled. “That’s because my ballet body was top priority, but I figured it was just riding on water. What could go wrong? I approached the dock, reducing my speed. I was going too fast. I cut the engine trying to steer away from the pier. My next memory is seeing my uncle standing at my bedside in ICU. He had stopped coloring his hair and it had grown long and grey. No shit, I was sure he was God and I was dead.” My friend spit out his tea laughing.

“My head, ear, and shoulder throbbed. I had multiple skull fractures, a ruptured inner ear, and broken collarbone. My hair was covered in blood, spinal fluid, and lake water.”

“ I know how you feel about dirty hair lol” He replied.

“Dirty hair was the least of my problems,” I continued.

“My mother asked me for a kiss. I could not pucker my lips. Facial paralysis was the most difficult injury to accept.” He pounded the table.

“Oh snap!” he exclaimed.

“Seriously, right? Did you know jet skis do not steer when you power off? Like, duh right? Well, no one told me.” He replied,

“I don’t think that would have occurred to me either.” I went on.

“Luckily, we were able to sue the rental company for not giving me proper instructions. I had an amazing lawyer. He worked for five years on my case. The money he won for me bought my first car, vacation, and house. He is the reason my sister is a lawyer.”

“Everything happens for a reason.” He said.

I continue. “I agree. Would you believe there is more?”

“WHAT!?!” he exclaimed.
I replied, “Funny my therapist had the same reaction.”
“This pandemic feels like a walk in the park right about now,” he said.
I admitted “Not for me in the beginning. I had to remind myself how much I had overcome to find the strength to get through this”.
“Do please continue,” he said.

“It was Mother’s Day five years ago. My mother, stepfather, sister, brother in law, niece, husband, and son were in our favorite restaurant. The cousins were happily coloring together. My head felt fuzzy. I picked at my food and sipped my wine, worried it would interact with the medication I was taking.”

“What meds did you mix with wine?” his scientist wife chimes in from the living room.

“Just an antispasmodic,” I replied.

“Ok good,” she replied before burying her face back in her laptop.

“The day before, I had gotten up to make my morning cup of coffee. As it brewed, I hit the floor with excruciating stomach pain. “Someone brings me my purse and cell phone… and pants.”

Ha-ha, the pants.” His eyes teared with laughter.

“Off to the ER we went. Upon arrival, a Doogie Howser looking resident drugged me up and ordered a CT-scan. I sat on the bed, totally loopy, drinking the most disgusting thing I had ever tasted to prepare for the test. The words “I do not have appendicitis” were lost on Dr. Doogie. He returned hours later.”

“Wait, how long were you waiting, what meds did they give you? How was your pain?” His face looked concerned.

“Oh, when the nurse came to push my pain meds, she warned me I would feel like I was drowning for about 5 seconds then my pain would disappear. She could not have been more accurate. She also gave me something for nausea, but it didn’t help much with my chalky white milkshake.”

“Ugh I can see where this is going,” he replied.

Dr. Doogie returns. “The CT-Scan showed nothing unusual, you can be discharged,” he said. (Duh). He continued “How is the pain, would you like another round of medication?”

I silently scream “Oh hell yes!” Instead, I say, “I can go home on meds?”

“Of course, you can,” he replies. Thank you, Dr. Doogie!

I was about 1 year into my treatment for IBS, trying different medication and diet changes. During a bad flare-up, I saw my gastroenterologist, on a regular basis. On this day I was a crying, hot mess and he was not thrilled I was in his office yet again. He said “Samantha, you need to manage your condition. I know it’s a pain in the ASS.” Funny guy, right? He says, “It’s like you get to the top of the stairs and when your symptoms flare up, you fall all the way down to the bottom.” (Little did he know I had a long way to go before I hit bottom.)

The Tool Box
He said “use your medications as tools to control your symptoms. This would help manage these issues before they went out of control.” Great, I had a plan. I had a new medication to try and I was going to learn to manage. It sounds like a fairy tale ending. It was just the opposite. Ironically, I had a terrible reaction to the medication. By that night I felt like all the wrath of hell was unleashed on my body.

I had been sticking to the same diet to eliminate food as a contributing factor, yet I was unable to “manage” as he suggested. Something had to give ASAP. Gaining the weight I had lost was my primary issue, so I started keeping a journal of what I ate and how I felt. I discovered my symptoms to be cyclical, in line with my menstrual cycle that was out of control. I found an article from Johns Hopkins University on PMDD. It listed 100 symptoms and I had 99. I sent the article to my gastro. “You need to get control of your hormones.” He replied.

“I went back and forth with my GP, gynecologist, and gastroenterologist to find a treatment I was comfortable with. I listened to my body and took the reins.”

“Fast forward another year and I was at a follow-up appointment with my Gastro. We laughed and chatted about how much progress I had made in such a short time. “I love seeing that smile,” he told me. After the unleashing of hell incident, and with the information I provided him, he stopped treating my “condition” and started treating the root cause of my issues, psychological and hormonal aka perimenopause. I asked him “Why call it IBS?” He replied

“it’s a term used when digestive issues are triggered by different systems of the body. Psychological issues, emotional stress, and hormones all play a role.”

I asked him “why didn’t you just say that?”

He replies, “most patients don’t respond well to hearing their symptoms originate from their mental health therefore the diagnosis of IBS.”

“So, you knew this all along?” I asked him. “All of this could have been resolved years ago if you just called it what it was.” He agreed.

“I know what I want to be when I grow up”. I texted Oliver. “We need to celebrate. “After more than 10 years I broke up with my gastro over video chat.” (Hey, it is not like it was a text message.) Why did I sever ties with the person that has been my safety net, my psychologist, gastroenterologist, and cheerleader as I struggled through this hell called perimenopause?”

“My door is open,” he replied

Bursting into his kitchen the words flew. “It’s the only thing holding me back from building my business as a health coach. During my studies, I was prompted to do some soul searching about my own health and wellness. I passed all the tests with flying colors. I know I am ready. Except for this one thing. It was time to pick up the phone and make an appointment with my GP. (I may have been avoiding her for a variety of reasons). She agreed to fill all my prescriptions, taking all responsibility away from my Gastro. Just like ripping off a band-aid. Ouch!

I am now a student at the Institute of Integrative Nutrition, health coach, and wellness writer. I want to work WITH doctors, not be dependent on one. This is how I got here in the first place after all. Doing research, listening to my body, talking with my doctors, educating them. Instead of paying them to tell me what I already know, (or something I will completely ignore), I am going to help THEM help patients just like me.”

Oliver popped the champagne. “That’s my girl, cheers”