Just joined the group and wanted to introduce myself.
Hello, my name is Chandler and I have gout. Although, in recent years, I h=
ad sort of
forgotten that fact, I shouldn't say forgotten, but I had pushed it to the =
back of my
mind. In any case, this is my story (My apologies for its length. This is=
my first time
at confession.):
I had my first acute gout attack when I was 19 years old. I think one coul=
d make a
fairly accurate connection between my attack and my entrance into college a=
nd the
joys and frivolities of access drinking. I thought I had twisted my ankle =
playing
basketball. What a wimp I imagined myself to be. I recalled scores of fri=
ends that
had twisted ankles over the course of the years and I had never seen one of=
them
writhe in pain, limp a little, feel tender in the ankle, sure, but squeal l=
ike a little baby?
Nooooo. But I get ahead of myself. I was in Spain when I had my first att=
ack, a study
year abroad. My ankle hurt, a soreness in the Achilles heel, but I was con=
tent to
hobble along and wait out what I thought was a minor injury. But my hobble=
didn't
go away. Instead, it became increasingly pronounced. Then, one warm, dulc=
et,
Castilian night in September of 1992, my traitorous foot revolted and decid=
ed to take
upon itself the sins and suffering of the entire world. Pure, concentrated=
, unrelenting
fire coursed through my foot with a siren wail. Never had I encountered su=
ch pain. I
pulled at my hair, clenched my teeth, stared at my foot in disbelief and fe=
lt utterly
humbled in my pain and isolation.
That was a good one. I know now. I've had others with which to compare. =
The skin
was hot, swollen and dry. The touch of the sheet felt like searing needles=
, and there
was
no such thing as a comfortable position. Keeping the foot still and flat h=
elped a little.
Instead of the molten, dizzying suffering I endured with any attempt to mov=
e it,
gingerly laying back on my bed with the foot flat lessened the agony to, wh=
at felt like
was, the gentle touch of a thousand sledge hammers raining down. A number =
of
things occurred to me during that nightmarish eternity. One, I had a great=
deal more
respect for all the people in the world with twisted ankles. How they bore=
such agony
which such silent dignity and poise, I could not fathom. I was embarrassed=
by my
own Tourette like squeals, yelps, curses and tears. Two, I decided then an=
d there I
would make an abominable secret agent. I pictured myself chained to a wall=
in a
dark, moldy basement. "Tell me your secrets!" the evil operative would dem=
and in my
ear. "Never!" I would cry. "You will get nothing from me, pig!" The evil=
operative
would merely smile contemptuously and hiss, "Twist his ankle!" And that wo=
uld be it.
I'd have sold out the world, all for my little ankle. Three, attempts to "=
be one with the
pain" or the idea that suffering is "illusion" could kiss my ass. Pain was=
real. It was
the most real thing in the world and it was all mine. Four, time is relati=
ve. Time, with
its fickle elasticity was my enemy. I was alone you see. I had been in Sp=
ain less than
a week. It was some ungodly hour and my sense of decorum would not have me=
wake my poor host mother. Plus, I barely spoke the language. What would s=
he have
made of this rabid, frothing, wild haired and swollen footed, delirious Ame=
rican,
coming into her room, hopping on one foot and babbling incoherently in rudi=
mentary
Spanish, punctuated by squeals of pain, in the middle of the night? No, th=
is was my
pain, my burden. My solace, my sanctuary was the clinic, the holy shrine o=
f good
health, medical expertise and prescription pain killers associated with my =
study
abroad program. But... time, evil time, cruel and malevolent, stood in th=
e way. The
clinic did not open until 6am. I had hours in which to soak and savor in m=
y pain.
Time was my enemy.
I swear, if the sweet, kind, fairy Goddess of amputation had descended upon=
my
room that night and offered her services, "I will relive you of your pain, =
dear child, but
the foot must then come off." "Cut it off!" I would say. And if thy right=
eye offends
thee... But she did not come and I endured. If seconds turned to minutes =
and
minutes hours, then my wait was only 13.75 days. I marveled at how there w=
as no
abatement of pain, not even the ephemeral dip and relief found in between
heartbeats and pulsing of blood with normal wounds. The pain did not throb=
. Its
oscillations were a strident, never ending scream.
I remember when the first creeping light of the rising sun slowly stole int=
o my room.
I began to ready myself for what I knew would be an arduous journey. I put=
on my
jacket, a baseball hat, my right sock, my right boot and then sat there sta=
ring at the
left boot. Even though I had unlaced the boot and opened it as far as it c=
ould go, I
still needed to fit that raw, deformed, bulbous stub of nerves, what had on=
ce been my
left foot, into said boot. I inserted the toes and held my breath and then=
pushed the
rest of the foot into the shoe. White pain rocketed through my body. I ye=
lled,
squealed, cried and cursed and rolled back onto the bed and gripped the cov=
ers, my
foot swaying, extended in mid air as if I could some how disown and disasso=
ciate it
from the rest of my body. But the shoe was on.
Salamanca, the Golden City, is a sight to behold. Layers of centuries old =
limestone
buildings, each one an architectural marvel, surround and branch out from a=
beautiful
baroque Plaza Mayor in the city's center. The University of Salamanca is t=
he world's
second oldest university and the pillar of Spanish intellectual culture. Y=
ou turn a
corner and suddenly you feel transported into the past. Perhaps, a troop o=
f Romans
might march into view Perhaps, a wayward Don Quixote And another charmin=
g
detail, which serves to add to the quaint antiquity of the city, that I dis=
covered on that
brisk, early morning walk to the clinic was the acute gout attack sufferer'=
s HELL
known as cobbled streets. Each stone painstakingly hand hewn and individua=
lly
placed to create a beautiful orchestration of jutting angles and irregular =
services. The
clinic was but five blocks from my host family's house and it took me nearl=
y an hour
to get there. Each step, no matter how carefully placed, sent jagged splin=
ters of pain
running up my leg. A ragged Gypsy approached me and asked me for money. I=
quickly gave him what change I had. The Gypsies were notorious for mugging=
s and
my being alone on a deserted street at an ungodly hour, certainly made me a=
prime
target. He looked me up and down and then moved on. Perhaps, the manic lo=
ok in
my eyes made him decide not to tangle with me. Little did he know, all he =
would
have had to do is lightly touch my foot and I would have crumpled to the gr=
ound in
agony and he could have stripped me of my wallet, clothes and shoes like a =
mother
undresses a babe.
I made it to the doctor's office. They took me in, x-rated my foot and quic=
kly
determined that I had pulled a ligament. Ah, I thought, this was no mere t=
wisted
ankle. I am not the complete wimp I thought I was. He gave me a mysteriou=
s
prescription written in Spanish and I "hastened" over more cobbled streets =
to the
nearest 24 hour pharmacy to have it filled. I settled into a routine in Sp=
ain. I would
drink like a proper Spaniard and, even better, a proper university going Sp=
aniard,
have mysterious attacks on my foot (Triggered by a physical trauma. I came=
to
understand at least that.), hobble to the nearest pharmacy and settle into =
my
apartment, where I would tightly wrap my foot to immobilize it (and thereby=
hinder
blood circulation) and flounder through delirium days and worse nights, cat=
ching a
hour of sleep here and there, in between chewing and swallowing my painkill=
ers.
During one attack I read the entire Brother's Karamazov in 5 days, consumin=
g 200
pages a day and identifying my own suffering completely with the existentia=
l angst
that is riddled through the novel. What were, you might ask, the mysteriou=
s Spanish
painkillers that I was eating like sweet candies? Why super doses of Spani=
sh made
aspirin. Lovely blood thinning aspirin, if only I had known what I know no=
w. But I
would suffer a few days, maybe a week, and then hobble once more over cobbl=
ed
streets straight to the bars to drink my pains away.
That was Spain. And I apologize this has gotten way too long, but I've com=
e this far, I
might as well finish. All in all, I had a fantastic time in Spain. My int=
erludes with gout
are diminished in my mind, compared to my other collegian misadventures. I=
accepted my plight as a cripple with phlegmatic fatalism. The only night t=
hat
nostalgia cannot soften is that first attack where I truly understood what =
pain is and
no amount time will ever make me forget.
Back in the states, I faired a little better, but not much. True, doctors =
looked at my
foot, x-rayed it and pronounced that the foolish Spanish Doctors had misdia=
gnosed
me. And with a voice of American authority said, "A torn ligament? No, no=
. You have
osteoporosis." A more year went by with more attacks, though the intervals=
between
them had increased. I still hobbled around. I gave up on the idea of ever=
running
again. I remember looking on as two guys played soccer on the college gree=
n with
tender sadness. If am not to run, I reasoned, then I will swim instead. A=
nd so I did.
Necessity had taught me not to twist, jar, or roll my ankle. If I did happ=
en to trip or
land weird on my ankle, I had actually trained myself to fall immediately t=
o the
ground, instead of attempting to regain my balance, the real cause of ankle=
injury.
And, by lucky coincidence, my Grandmother had once been kind enough to shar=
e
with me her Ibuprofen, which seemed to appease my foot in ways which aspiri=
n
apparently failed. Frustrated, my mother sent me to new doctors. This tim=
e it was
determined that I had a benign tumor in my left foot and that was surely th=
e cause of
all my problems. And at the end of the second year of my return from Spain=
I was
admitted to Mass General Hospital to under go surgery in the cancer ward fo=
r the
removal the mass which was plainly visible in my MRI. I awoke on a hospita=
l bed, and
through the fog of anesthesia a doctor leaned forward and said, "Oops, you =
have
gout." Tophi, benign you are not.
So, I had gout. I also had a nice new gouge in my foot and a brand new ach=
e which,
over the next few days would transcend into an unbearable pain. As I writh=
ed in bed,
I noticed my precious supply of Percocets, the delightful little pills that=
quieted my
torture to a dull simmer and afforded me a few hours of sleep here and ther=
e, were
running low. I tentatively called one of the doctors and told him about my=
pain and
my diminishing supply of painkillers. The voice on the other end was dismi=
ssive and
incredulous, "You should expect some post-operative pain." Only later would=
I learn
that the trauma of surgery often causes gout attacks. It was not enough fo=
r him to
misdiagnose me and cut open my foot open unnecessarily! No, he had to insu=
lt me
as well! I would love to take a syringe of uric acid and inject it in that=
condescending
doctor's foot and ask him if his agony fits within his nonchalant parameter=
s of "post-
operative pain." I would wager not.
And my saga comes to, not an end, but a plateau. I finally was taken to a =
rheumatologist who recognized my gout immediately. He shook his head solem=
nly
as he reviewed my medical history. I was finally given proper treatment an=
d proper
meds. I changed my diet and began a sober (well, let us say, non-alcoholic=
)
completion of college. My friends found my peculiar ailment to be quite fu=
nny and,
not to mention, useful as I drove them from party to party, weekend after w=
eekend.
Ironic that the permanent, designated driver is invited to more parties tha=
n any other.
And on rare occasions, special birthdays, weddings, and winter holidays I w=
ould relax
my regimen and put back a few beers or, sometimes, a few scotches (so sweet=
to the
taste buds, like liquid gold). "Saving up the foot," became a regular expr=
ession
among my friends. I would get requests months in advance. "It's my birthd=
ay on May
10th. I want you to come. Save up your foot." "Oo," I would deliberate, =
"I do have an
event in April, but I'll see if the foot can fit yours in." But there was =
balance in the
world. My hobble diminished into limp, my limp to walk and, finally, my wa=
lk to
running again!
Though now in tune with my gout, I was to learn that I had a seldom known v=
ariant of
gout, which I, and my friends, termed Sneaky Gout. I thought my attacks we=
re limited
to only my left foot, but my right foot fell victim twice and my right elbo=
w once. Most
attacks I quickly quelled with a smack down of Ibuprofen. The elbow threw =
me,
though, I must admit. Never imagined that the Gout could affect an elbow. =
It wasn't
until I felt that tell tale siren pain that I recognized who was calling. =
"Ah, I know you,
you devil." My ignorance cost me two weeks of being unable bend, in the sl=
ightest,
my elbow. Try washing your hair with one arm. Try buttoning your buttons.=
Try
wiping Hush, now! Too much information!
So, I managed for 12 years and suffered relatively little. Not being able =
to drink I
considered a small sacrifice, easy on the wallet and perhaps a blessing in =
disguise.
And becoming a vegetarian assured me that no euphemistic delicacies would g=
race
my dinner plate (Sweet meets?! Please!). But in the past year or so I gre=
w cocky. I
started having a beer or scotch or two or both with friends at dinners, at =
bars. I
usually didn't drink much. My tolerance was so low it never required much =
to allow
me to experience the warmth and lubricated feel of inebriation. And the Go=
ut was
silent. Maybe a twinge here or there, but nothing a few shots of 600mgs of=
Ibuprofen
couldn't squelch. And then I reached the age when all my friends and myse=
lf
included began to turn 30. In quick succession I attended grand parties an=
d then the
inevitable influx of weddings. But still the foot lay dormant.
Enter the holiday season of 2003. For thanksgiving, a brand new bottle of =
Genmorangie Port Finish. It was delicious, I assure you. And I found that=
I had
rediscovered the sublime satisfaction of a nice bottle of wine at dinner (s=
omething I
hadn't revisited since my days in Spain). I spent the Christmas holidays i=
n Costa Rica
at a hotel where the package included all food and drink. A few, two, mayb=
e four or
five Pina Coladas and a refreshing beer or two was too good to resist under=
a hot
equatorial sun. Hey, me, my gout, we were all on vacation and for any issu=
es that
might arise, I had a fresh bottle of Advil waiting in my travel kit. On my=
last night in
Costa Rica, walking down the dusty road that cut through the bar and disco =
strip in
Coco Beach, at 3 am, I suddenly began to feel both ankles start to freeze. =
I rushed
back to the hotel, started a regimen of 800mgs of Advil and made a New Year=
s
resolution to stay away from drink, for real this time, no, honest, I meant=
it. And I
might have stuck to it, accept I had another 30th birthday party to attend =
to in Las
Vegas.
I was with friends, in a casino, I was winning money and, best of all, the =
casino was
bringing us free drinks. I could not resist the special delight of not onl=
y winning
money from Vegas but also sticking them with my bar tab as well. It was to=
o good to
pass up. As I went to sleep on my last night in Vegas I had a sneaking sus=
picion that
I had crossed the line. I woke up with a twinge in my ankle, but once agai=
n, nothing a
little Advil wouldn't knock out. Or, so I thought. I drove back to LA and=
then a few
days later headed off to New York City to work on a documentary. By the ti=
me I got
on the plane for NYC I was limping.
"Ha," my friends in New York laughed at me as I limped along in the miserab=
le recent
cold of the city, "the Gout Foot is back again!" They would make a great s=
how of it.
One of them mimicking my limp to perfection as we waddled now sidewalks, gi=
ngerly
stepping over ice. At least there were no cobbled streets to contend with,=
I thought.
And my spirits were good. I knew I had brought this upon myself. I was pa=
ying for
my hubris with the Gods of drink and Gout and I was being served my just fr=
uits. I
switched my Advil intake to 600mgs 4 times a day instead of 800mgs 3 times =
a day
because I found the fourth dose, taken late at night, allowed me a longer n=
ight's
sleep. One irony, of which the humor was not lost on me, was that the danc=
ers on
crutches that I had flown to NYC to shoot, were now walking circles around =
me as my
limp deteriorated into my long forgotten hobble.
The scoreboard read: Gout 1, Advil a big fat 0. I had pushed the limit too=
far. The
slope I had descended upon had suddenly giving way and I was falling fast a=
nd out of
control. The siren wail was back, though tempered some by the Ibuprofen, b=
ut, still,
the volume was increasing. Then, this past Monday, the Gout returned. As =
I sat in
my friend's apartment watching the red time display of his cable box, a gia=
nt, never
ending drill bit was slowly and unceasingly tearing through the flesh of my=
Achilles
heel. Here I am, I thought, in the middle of New York City, in the middle =
of the night,
alone in my pain and it is all my own fault.
Fortunately, I did manage to fall asleep around 6am, after 800mgs of Advil =
had finally
worked their way down to my foot. But at 9am I was up again and on the pho=
ne to
my doctor. By 11am the delivery man (NYC is wonderful in that way. This t=
ime there
would be no wrestling with shoes!) had delivered that which, in my state, w=
as surely
more precious than gold Indocin.
So, I am humbled and I am returned to the world of Gout. My hobble has rec=
eded
back to a limp. I must admit, I had fun while I was out there in the norma=
l world.
The scotches, the beer and the wine were all quite lovely, but given a choi=
ce between
a life with them and inhumanly painful retribution, verse a life abstaining=
and healthy
foot ready for jogs on the beach, I choose the latter. So, hello, to all o=
f you. I am
glad to have found this group. Thank you for having me here. I promise to=
behave
although, I do have a wedding, or two, to attend to in September.