Not to many months ago, one of my boys decided to get a tattoo.  Ever since he was younger he had been designing ideas for what would be his first permanent marking.  He would come home from school, covered in designs up his legs and arms, and my only thought other than potential blood poisoning from the ink and lack of complete school work was, “thank goodness they can’t do this on their own when they’re kids”.  Can you imagine?  If he would have been allowed to just go get anything done, (despite the money factor) he would have come home with all sorts of crazy stuff permanently etched in his skin.  He went to a concert once, and the artist signed his arm.  He begged and begged for me to let him have a tattoo over that signature on his arm, and wouldn’t even shower until I gave in.  Despite his stubbornness, I won that battle and we took a picture of the autographed arm right before he showered.

The 18th birthday came, and off he marched to the tattoo parlor, money and design in hand, ready to be inked. ” How hard could it be? ” The question he should of asked him self is “how painful will this be?“  He texted me a few times while I was at work, all excited.  It was the actual day of his birth, and he was fulfilling his dream.  Little did he know how much pain that dream would bring him.

It’s a very difficult thing to watch someone be in pain, even when it’s self inflicted.  It would be a lot easier to be detached and say “It’s your own fault”, or “You should have thought of that first”, but as an empathetic person, it’s pretty hard to watch someone suffer, let alone a mother watch her child suffer.  I came home from work, and there he was, sitting on the couch, holding back the tears.  I took one look at him and knew it was going to be a long night.  He hadn’t decided on the first one being a small symbol – he’d covered the entire calf on the back of his leg.  To make matters worse, a relative had called leaving a message on his phone that was upsetting, and when getting cream for his leg at the local grocery store, a secret shopper though he’d been shoplifting and tackled him in the parking lot, dragging him back in to the store.  (He ended up with an official apology from the market owner, a $25 gift certificate and a job after I was done complaining, but that’s a different story).

Seeing his face, I immediately went in to action.  I had to help.  First the pain killers – lets get on top of it. Next we talked about the phone call and the message, and I dispelled his thoughts of feeling guilty about not wanting to call that relative back.  Next, I let him rant about the grocery store incident.  I let him just go on till it was out of his system, and then went and found the cream he needed for his leg.  When I came home, I sat with him, had some dinner and just reminisced about the last 18 years and how special he is.  The next couple of days was hard for him, but he got through it.  I would have taken that pain for him if I could, but it was something he had to get through while I watched.

When my daughter first started having stomach pain, I figured it was just a regular stomach ache caused by constipation. Eventually as time passed on, the pain got worse and worse, bringing us to the emergency center 18 times in a span of 5 months.  She was treated with Acetaminophen, Ibuprofen, Naprosyn, Naproxen, Toradol, IV Toradol, Buscopan, Morphine, Demarol, and even Fentanol.  The Fentanol worked, but then I learned what it really is and insisted she never have it again.  Despite that, they gave it to her on a second occasion – 3 doses – and I was very upset.  She never had it again after that, but of course, it’s all she asked for. There was nothing else I could do to stop the pain.  I was so incredibly frustrated, desperate for anything that could help.  There were many nights I sat with her, massaging her legs and back, warming hot water bottles, covering her in blankets, and then massaging her legs again.  We would put on some kind of movie, and with the combination of all of it, she would eventually fall asleep, only to repeat things the next day.  The morning would start off at a 2 or 3 out of 10 on the pain scale, and as the day progressed, by night time we would be at and 8 or 9, and sometimes a 10.

One day, I was posting my frustration on Facebook, and an old friend of mine from high school, now in the US, messaged me about some alternative methods for dealing with pain using essential oils.  Quite truthfully, he could have said rub banana pudding all over her stomach and make her dance and I would have tried it.  I eventually met up with his mom, and purchased a very small bottle of peppermint oil.  Sure.  Why not?  It wasn’t going to hurt her.  We met up in a parking lot, and got the oil.  My daughter was in the car, crying from the pain.  I had her expose her abdomen and we rolled on some peppermint from this tiny bottle.  Within about 20 minutes, her pain had significantly subsided.  We were both stunned.  Perhaps this would be worth studying a little more.  (I did study more and came up with great info, but that will be saved for a different blog).

Months of counseling, a long hospital stay, and even more therapeutic work along with consistent use of  poly ethylene glycol (PEG), and  Peppermint Essential Oil (medicinal grade is the only one that worked well), helped her stomach pain subside. For months it was completely gone, and I can’t even begin to express my relief.  To not have to see the miserable pain in her face every day anymore was enough to make me twirl and dance and sing.

Pain and mental health really go hand in hand.  Feel sick, or in pain for any duration, and soon you feel frustrated.  Eventually you start feeling down, and hopelessness can set in.  Over time, depression sets in and you can’t see your way out of the fog.  I have come to learn through my daughter, that the best help I gave her through some of those darkest days was just sitting with her, and being there.  That was probably the hardest part for me, because I’m a do-er by nature – not a sitter.  A hug, reassurance, and just being there for someone can be the ultimate act of love.  We can’t necessarily rescue someone, but we can definitely be there to help them through the journey.

My daughters pain is back, and some days it’s not pretty.  I have refused trips to the hospital, and instead I run a hot bath, get out my oils, find a good movie, some cozy blankets, and some hot tea and we sit.  Sometimes we don’t talk and it’s just quiet, but she knows I’m there, and that’s what’s important. Don’t get me wrong, if it was a safety issue, we’d be back there in a flash.

I won’t lie.  My frustration and exhaustion are very close to the surface, especially when I thought we were past this, but I’m reminded that this is a journey, not a trip.  More research.  More listening.  More counseling, and Dr.’s and programs.  Our journey ahead might be long, so it’s a good thing that my well of love is so deep