Unspoken Dangers

    I'm not too terribly fond of statistics. I think most are misrepresented in some shape or form. Either they are calculated by the company who obviously wants them to say something a certain way; or an important bit of information is left out.
    It's like making apple pie without listing apples on the recipe. You almost have a pie of some sort and some people might eat a brown sugar and crust pie but you're missing the main idea.

    Taking prescriptions is a lot like that. We assume they're safe because the FDA told us so and they have their 'studies' and statistics to prove it. That doctor surely would research what he's giving us before he signs his name on that prescription and obviously these drugs are suppose to cure us. Why question that?

    But if you start to research statistics on deaths and serious injuries from using prescription drugs; and I'm talking about more than just teenagers raiding their parents' medicine cabinet for a quick fix. I'm talking about taking a drug as prescribed by the doctor than you will find that your chances of dying or being seriously wounded are quite high.

   In some causes, high enough that we have to wonder why we just blindly pop these pills the doctors hand us and assume that they will make us better and not worse. Should we start to demand a little bit more research; a little bit more effort on our government's part to assure our safety?
   Yes. We should. Because some reports state that over a 100,000 people die a year from taking prescriptions or OTC medications.

   So either the numbers from the actual FDA's Adverse Event Reporting System are wrong. Or the info packets they hand out with our drugs where it says a 'very, rare and small portion of the population may die a sudden and violent death from taking our product' are wrong. Oh, wait they don't even say that do they? Umm, someone is wrong.

   But let me explain where my doubts of our medicine system really started....
    First it was the doctor insisting that I could take the Remicade even though it would up my risk of cancer. I started to have doubts then. Why trade one disease for another?

   Then when my surgeon took me off the narcotics and prescribed me Ultram.
   And that's when my life nose dived downhill. I was slowly starting to get better before that point. The wound was healing, the pain was marginally better and the Crohn's was slowly fading back into it's remission state.
   And then I took the Ultram. Now, usually I avoid most drugs. They upset my Crohn's and a temporary ache or pain or cold is much more tolerable to deal with than the stomach pains the Crohn's can cause.
   But with the Ultram I had nothing. No upset stomach, no cramping, no unsightly bowel movements. So I figured it must have been okay.

   It helped with the pain enough. It wasn't quite as good as the narcotic but it was sufficient. But then over the next few weeks my health weakened. The fistula wound was trying to get more infected again. Another lump of something painful formed under the other bottom cheek. And I was losing weight, despite eating.
   The girls were quickly losing their Mommy and Bean took to raiding the cupboards whenever she wanted. Not because I wasn't feeding them. I would still drag myself from the bed, get their meals, give Abu her shots and collapse onto the couch. It was pitiful. I felt horrible.
   The wound in my bottom forced me to wear pajama bottoms all the time. Jeans would rub against it. So I felt horribly undressed. I would clean up for the day; but nothing more. There was no pride in myself.
   I was depressed and dark and wounded. Later I would find out that Ultram messes with your emotions; causing changes in your mood. Would have been nice to know sooner.

   The girls did what they wanted. We didn't have structure or routine. I interfered when they would fight but if they weren't destroying something or hurting themselves; than I allowed them to do pretty much whatever. The house was always a mess; toys ran from one room to the next in huge piles. Their room was cluttered.
    I managed to do the dishes sometimes; my Mom would do the rest. Hero Hottie took care of the trash, and the shopping, and cleaning my wound in the evening, and errands, and working two jobs. The chasm was never wider and I wonder now, why he didn't just walk out? And then I'm extremely grateful that he didn't.

    The surgeon on one of my check ups looked at me quite seriously and said that because of my Crohn's there was a chance; a slightly large chance; that the fistula might never, ever heal completely. Translation: You will have to stick cotton gauze into an open wound in your bottom cheek forever. It means days lived with massive pain, possible infection, no sex and pretty much living in hell.

    Dark days after that. How is one supposed to process a statement like that? I would sit in the tub of warm water, staring blankly at the walls until the temperature of the water was as cold and numbing as the inside of me. I had little girls that I could barely take care of; a husband that was near his own point of collapse and a life I didn't know how to fix.

   The walls unfortunately held no answers for me.

   I continued to lose weight. And the lump in my bottom grew. Summer waned into autumn. A wasted summer where we at least tried to make it out back to play, even if I just sat there and watched them. But we didn't hardly leave the house.
   The doctor's office and the surgery place started sending me letters asking why I wasn't paying them that much money. Because I didn't have it. I didn't have insurance.
    Even with Hero Hottie working two jobs; the bills grew. I started pulling cash off our credit cards to pay for utilities and food and medicine.
    Somehow; we managed to pay our mortgage even though we didn't have enough money. I still try to figure that one out and the numbers still don't make sense. There wasn't enough money to pay it. Yet, we managed. Faith; is all I have to say about that one.

    The GI doctor's only answer was Remicade and he was unwilling to put me on any other of the regular drugs I usually went on when the Crohn's flared up. But hey, if I joined the Remicade club I would get this really cool fuzzy blanket to use while the IV drug that might cause cancer, pumped into my system.
    Wow, a blanket. How thoughtful, while you're charging me thousands of dollars per treatment. That is generous. And who pays for the side effects if I happen to be one of those people that develops problems?

   I was at a lost. I felt like I was slowly starving inside a body that was being fed. I was drowning in dark, depressed moods and my faith was at it's lowest point ever.