Monday, June 07, 2004
Depression and Blaming the Victim
I cannot say that I had never felt depressed before this disaster occurred. Yes, there were things in my life that really got me down--one of them being the move we made from a city I adored to a city that I am only starting to appreciate after almost four years living here. In fact, about ten months before my total hip disaster, I had begun to see a therapist to work through all the feelings that had come to the surface after our move. A few months before the surgery (I have trouble calling it that, butchery seems more apt) I had begun spacing out my visits to the therapist and was feeling more "aware" of my feelings and able to deal with them as an adult and not a hurt child.
But the black depression that has come over me due to my new, much more severe incapacity poses a psychological challenge that I would not wish on anyone.
I entered into this adventure with trepidation but also armed with dozens of success stories. The reality has often been too much for me to bear. Like a woman who miscarries and is constantly obliged to explain to those around her that no, she lost the baby, she is not a tired though happy new mom, I too find myself having to explain that I am one of the very few whose hip replacement has resulted in disaster.
Every day, I wake up with the physical reminder of how badly things have gone and the question mark of what my future holds. Luckily, I am able to work (I am self-employed) and the rigours of my job , which fortunately is done sitting down, keep me from obsessing non-stop over the damage done to me.
I began seeing my therapist again before I could even get out of the house but also before I had confirmation of how badly things had gone. He came to my house once and though I was happy to see him, I did not recommence regular sessions until I could once again drive to his office. Many's the time I have sat in his waiting room quietly crying.
I consider my therapist part of my "professional team" along with my GP. Of course my husband and children are integral to keeping me from totally going over the deep end. The three of them give me their total love and support and I am also lifted up by having to/wanting to love them back as much as I can. As I write this, I realize that I don't see my surgeon as being part of this team. No one is perfect and even the best of surgeons make mistakes but he made that mistake on me and it's hard to feel that I'm in good hands considering the enormity of the crime he and his henchmen committed on my body and my life. Strangely, though, I suspect he will be the one to correct the disaster if I have to go for further surgery. But as I say this, I also realize that I will probably go for a second opinion, or maybe even a third.
My arsenal also includes anti-depressants, something I had never used in my life before now. Initially, it was psychologically hard to accept that I would be better off taking them. And this feeling was infinitely compounded by the fact that I have been prescribed exactly the same anti-depressants as those my mother took. It seems to support my feeling of being cursed and that there is no way I will ever get better BECAUSE MY MOTHER NEVER GOT BETTER, ONLY WORSE, NO MATTER WHAT TREATMENT SHE RECEIVED.
Which leads me to the other part of this post: blaming the victim. I blame myself, first and foremost, for even hoping that the surgery would make me better. Given my mother's experience, in my deepest soul I do not believe that I can break free from the road that her life has traced for me. I know this sounds melodramatic but the fact remains that physically, my experience has never deviated from that of my mother's, right down to that one little hair on my chinny chin chin. My physical life has so far been a carbon copy of hers. Professionally and personally, I have been successful in leading my own life but physically I have suffered as much, if not more than she did at the same age. So far, I have no proof that anything will be different. I even blame myself for hoping that something good will happen--something different from my mother's slide into disability. Well, yes, it is different. She slid. I have been projected headlong and years earlier into significant disability.
I also blame myself for not searching harder for a surgeon (see my first posts) and not finding out more about MIS. I blame myself for putting my trust in a doctor. But then again, none of the people I truly trust in life could have performed a total hip replacement...
The expression "caveat emptor" comes to mind: buyer beware. But shopping for a hip replacement requires specialized knowledge that I, for one, don't have. I trusted professionals (my former surgeon, Dr. "Parent", the nurse in the operating theatre, the physiotherapists and all of their advice was WRONG.
Depression and blame are horrible feelings.
But the black depression that has come over me due to my new, much more severe incapacity poses a psychological challenge that I would not wish on anyone.
I entered into this adventure with trepidation but also armed with dozens of success stories. The reality has often been too much for me to bear. Like a woman who miscarries and is constantly obliged to explain to those around her that no, she lost the baby, she is not a tired though happy new mom, I too find myself having to explain that I am one of the very few whose hip replacement has resulted in disaster.
Every day, I wake up with the physical reminder of how badly things have gone and the question mark of what my future holds. Luckily, I am able to work (I am self-employed) and the rigours of my job , which fortunately is done sitting down, keep me from obsessing non-stop over the damage done to me.
I began seeing my therapist again before I could even get out of the house but also before I had confirmation of how badly things had gone. He came to my house once and though I was happy to see him, I did not recommence regular sessions until I could once again drive to his office. Many's the time I have sat in his waiting room quietly crying.
I consider my therapist part of my "professional team" along with my GP. Of course my husband and children are integral to keeping me from totally going over the deep end. The three of them give me their total love and support and I am also lifted up by having to/wanting to love them back as much as I can. As I write this, I realize that I don't see my surgeon as being part of this team. No one is perfect and even the best of surgeons make mistakes but he made that mistake on me and it's hard to feel that I'm in good hands considering the enormity of the crime he and his henchmen committed on my body and my life. Strangely, though, I suspect he will be the one to correct the disaster if I have to go for further surgery. But as I say this, I also realize that I will probably go for a second opinion, or maybe even a third.
My arsenal also includes anti-depressants, something I had never used in my life before now. Initially, it was psychologically hard to accept that I would be better off taking them. And this feeling was infinitely compounded by the fact that I have been prescribed exactly the same anti-depressants as those my mother took. It seems to support my feeling of being cursed and that there is no way I will ever get better BECAUSE MY MOTHER NEVER GOT BETTER, ONLY WORSE, NO MATTER WHAT TREATMENT SHE RECEIVED.
Which leads me to the other part of this post: blaming the victim. I blame myself, first and foremost, for even hoping that the surgery would make me better. Given my mother's experience, in my deepest soul I do not believe that I can break free from the road that her life has traced for me. I know this sounds melodramatic but the fact remains that physically, my experience has never deviated from that of my mother's, right down to that one little hair on my chinny chin chin. My physical life has so far been a carbon copy of hers. Professionally and personally, I have been successful in leading my own life but physically I have suffered as much, if not more than she did at the same age. So far, I have no proof that anything will be different. I even blame myself for hoping that something good will happen--something different from my mother's slide into disability. Well, yes, it is different. She slid. I have been projected headlong and years earlier into significant disability.
I also blame myself for not searching harder for a surgeon (see my first posts) and not finding out more about MIS. I blame myself for putting my trust in a doctor. But then again, none of the people I truly trust in life could have performed a total hip replacement...
The expression "caveat emptor" comes to mind: buyer beware. But shopping for a hip replacement requires specialized knowledge that I, for one, don't have. I trusted professionals (my former surgeon, Dr. "Parent", the nurse in the operating theatre, the physiotherapists and all of their advice was WRONG.
Depression and blame are horrible feelings.
