Have you seen the movie “Groundhog Day”? Bill Murray, Andie MacDowell, 1993. The day that just keeps repeating, repeating, repeating. Bill Murray’s character is supposed to evolve and change over time, finally coming to grips with bettering other people’s lives and learning to truly love.
Well, apparently Someone had seen “Groundhog Day” and decided to try it out on me. Just for s@*ts and giggles.
It was 2006. I was in my junior year of college. I had been working my way through college since 2000, paying my way to minimize student debt. But I was finally, finally doing what I loved. I was studying History and passionate about it. I was in the Socratic Club, where our Christmas parties were comprised of readings given in Latin and sipping cider at our professor’s home. I envisioned myself a future historian, writing and researching. Happy.
I got a cold in early spring. There is a vivid memory that I still hold of sitting on the couch, studying for an ancient history class and nursing my headache and congestion. The thing is, the headache never went away. The cold disappeared and life should have been on its merry way. But the headache stayed.
That began my journey– undiagnosed at the time– with NDPH. New Daily Persistent Headache. The “Groundhog Day” of primary headache syndromes.
Imagine the worst headache you have ever had. Then multiple it by 4,470 days (which is the rough count, as of today).
To describe what those first few years were like would take too long. I barely graduated college, which I still haven’t forgiven myself for– as if, in some way, I should have been strong enough to muscle through physical torment to reach my academic potential. I struggled financially for nearly five years. I ruined so many trips and plans and getaways. I lived on Vicodin and Tramadol and Advil. There were an uncountable number of days I did not even get out of bed until 3 pm. A million different medications were tried and discarded.
A neurologist named Dr. Esther Rawner saved my life.
I begrudgingly went to my appointment with her. So many doctors and visits and guesses and arguments had come before her. She introduced herself, asked about me and within 5 minutes (literally 5 minutes) she said, “You have NDPH.” By the time I left her office I was nearly in tears. Someone knew what was wrong with me. Believed me. Could name it. Could help me.
I still have NDPH. Sometimes around the 10 or 15 year mark it can disappear for people. Some individuals have it forever. I don’t know if that will happen for me. It is okay if it does not. Now my Headache is part of me. I am unsure who I would be without it. Some months are worse than others. Sometimes I barely notice it at all.
The thing about chronic illness/pain that well individuals may not understand is the dichotomous life that it creates for a person. The being all alone in a way that you can never fully explain and at the same time being constantly and incessantly with something else. Pain is my friend. Pain lives in the back left corner of my imaginary brain space. Comments on everything I do. Interrupts all the time. Interprets, changes plans, colors every experience. Pain keeps me from truly connecting with people the way that I want to. So I am never alone and always lonely.
When I am in nature, a little of that slips away. Suddenly, the loneliness becomes a quiet stillness– not negative, but ancient and calm. My body relaxes and while Pain is there, he takes a backseat to the sun (or rain) on my face, the tingle of fresh air, the smell of salt spray– my senses are alive to the rich, unknown and ever-present feel of the elements.
People do not necessarily see me as ill. I was a dancer for a long time and coached for years after that. I don’t look sick or sound sick. For a decade I worked in education in high-intensity roles that required every bit of my life. The reason I mention this is because many individuals with chronic illnesses, mobility issues, unknown diagnoses or other impairments simply don’t LOOK unwell.
But Misty and I, we know you are out there. We know that you simply stopped making plans because you knew you would need to break them. We know that you stash ice packs. We know that you horde medications just in case you might run out. You have nightmares about igniting a flare up or starting a cascading set of symptoms. We know that you are alone and yet not-alone. We know the never ending search for a comfortable position that will just take the edge off. We have gotten the looks and the whispers for taking another day off of work for an invisible illness.
Nature does not care. Nature is the great equalizer. My hope is that we can encourage anyone, with any level of expertise, ability, wellness or illness, mental or physical challenge, to participate in #dirttherapy. It can be as simple as sitting in a garden or taking the dog for a walk. None of our crew will ever be Bear Grylls or Edmund Hillary. We don’t have to be. Nature gets nothing from us and does not judge. It is simply there. To be enjoyed. To challenge us. To give perspective. To remind us that there is more.
If I am going to have to live in a Groundhog Day type loop for the rest of my life, I might as well make that day the best one ever.
Photo: Deschutes River off Deschutes River Trail near Seventh Mountain Resort, Bend, Oregon
Dirt Therapy 