Running out of spoons

I’d been sitting in the blue squishy armchair for what felt like an hour, though more likely it had only been fifteen minutes. There are only four of those armchairs, and they are coveted, being the only actual comfortable chairs in my pain management clinic’s waiting room. The rest of the chairs in the room are made of black metal and hard gray cushioning, and no matter what length of time you sit in them, be it an hour or only five minutes, you will always always  get up in pain and discomfort. 

Today the chairs were almost empty, and I got my pick of all four, choosing the largest and squishiest on the far right near the door. It was late in the afternoon, much later than I’m usually there, and most of the patients had already been seen. I was mentally kicking myself for agreeing to an appointment that late, usually at that time I’d have been home napping.  God, I wish I was napping. 

Today’s outing was a mistake, I knew this now. I knew it when I was on the crowded bus making my way here. I knew it while traversing the five blocks from the bus stop to the office building complex, especially once it started to rain. I knew it once the wind snapped back my once sturdy umbrella, rendering it broken and useless. See, the problem was that I’ve been sick for days. No, not my usual sickness of arthritis pain and fatigue, though it was included. But actual sickness, like a cold, or in my case a sore throat with fever. I’d spent the whole weekend in bed, barely making it up to use the bathroom and make cups or tea, I couldn’t even remember when I’d eaten last. I was feeling so shitty yesterday that I’d had to cancel/reschedule three appointments, because I physically didn’t have enough energy to put clothes on, let alone catch the bus downtown. Usually, I have help from my caretaker on days like yesterday…  But a few weeks ago I’d insisted that they take a vacation from looking after me, assuring them that I’d be fine. I mean what could go wrong in one week right?

 …..sometimes I wonder if I jinx myself when bargaining with fate like that.

On a normal day, I would have known better than to leave my apartment feeling so bad. But today was a special day, not one that I could skip. See, today was when I got my prescription for my pain management medications. Since they are severely controlled substances, you can only get a 30 day prescription at a time. My clock had been ticking down, and I have only two days worth of medication left in my medicine cabinet. I could be on my deathbed and I wouldn’t miss that appointment. It’s as important as paying rent on time.

So today, a day where I’d woken up feeling like I was flattened by a steamroller in my sleep, I left my house to travel thirty-five minutes downtown and sit in that room, in the blue armchair, waiting. Dripping wet from getting caught in the rain with a now broken umbrella, waiting.  Shivering cold in the office’s icy air conditioning, waiting.

Ever heard of Spoon Theory? It’s a theory that was brought to life by a woman named Christine Miserandino, whom has lupus. Christine tells a story to her friend, explaining what life is like living with lupus, but it really could be an explanation for a myriad of chronic diseases, including my Rheumatoid Disease. To truly understand what we go through, give it a read here. It’s the best description of what I go through on a day to day basis and you’ll need it to understand the rest of my writing.

Any day that I wake up sick, or in the middle of an active flare, or exhausted from a restless sleep, is a day I wake up on borrowed time. It’s waking up with half the spoons of a regular day. Though for me, there really is no “regular” day, because every day I wake up I’m in some measure of pain. Today, was an especially bad day. By the time I’d reached the pain management clinic offices, I didn’t have many spoons left, maybe three, four if I got lucky. In fact, I was pretty worried about making it home at all.

After what seemed like an extraordinary amount of time, I was finally called in to my doctors office. I’d assumed today would be like any other day, just the regular picking up of my script, ten to fifteen minutes top. Alas, it was not to be. I was met by a new attending nurse, whom told me I’d have to give a urine sample before getting my prescription. This was new. I’d never been asked to do that in the three years I’d attended this office. To be honest, I was fairly insulted. This test was to insure I’d been taking my pain medications, and not doing something more sinister like selling them on the streets. Did they really think after all these years of my being on intense pain medications, medications that not only kept me mobile but also alive, that I’d just throw it away for some cash? Ugh…

By the time I left the clinic it was an hour later than I’d expected. It was also unfortunately still raining. It was going to be dark in just under an hour, and I was exasperated because I still needed to stop by my local pharmacy and pick up another prescription that I was already out of. Had I not been so sick over the weekend I would have picked it up already, but I’d been in too much pain to leave the house. Unfortunately making it so that I had to pick it up today after my appointment. This could have already been taken care of, and I could have been on my way home by now had that stupid new nurse not made me take that ridiculous urine test. 

It took what little energy I had left to walk those five blocks back to the bus stop. The rain slowed me down, my broken umbrella doing little to shield me from the wet weather. I was waiting at the crosswalk  when my bus rolled past. No no no. No. I hurried across the street, trying to be careful not to slip ( I did not need to deal with a broken bone of all things right now), and put up my hand trying to signal the bus not to leave. He was right there. But he left. When I was not two feet from the back of the bus, where I’m sure he could see me in his rearview. Thanks bus driver. Thanks.

By the time the next bus to my suburb came, it was dark and still raining.

 Pneumonia. I was surely going to get pneumonia.

 I could hear my moms voice in my head telling me to catch an Uber or Lyft, and man would I have loved to, had I enough money in my bank account to pay for it. But tomorrow  was rent day. I didn’t even have enough money to pay my gas or electric, or my internet and phone. Hell, I didn’t even have enough money to supplement my $90 monthly food stamp allowance. I’d just gone two days without gas, which meant no hot water and no ability to cook food. Ride shares were a luxury I couldn’t afford. 

The bus was packed, it being rush hour and all, and the floors were slick from the rain. I had to stand for the first ten minutes, before finally securing a seat in the sideways facing disability section in front. I don’t usually like sitting there, as riding sideways makes me nauseated, but beggars can’t be choosers. I was beyond exhausted. I maybe had one to two spoons left, and if I didn’t really need to pick up that prescription I would have caught that bus right to my street. But I knew I couldn’t live without my medicine. Waking up without it would make things so terribly worse.

Once at my destination I bought a bottle of water, drinking half of it down before continuing to the pharmacy counter, hoping to alleviate the nausea I inevitably got from the bus ride.The liquid revitalized me just enough to stand in the long line that had accumulated for those “picking up”. I paid for my prescriptions, dropped off the new ones, and headed back to the bus stop, elated that my day was so close to the end. I allowed myself to fantasize about a hot shower and a cup of Irish breakfast tea. 

As I watched my bus drive past me as I turned the corner, an offer of a million dollars couldn’t have stopped the tears from falling. I was so tired. So this is what being stuck out in the world without spoons felt like… I don’t even remember sitting down, but I must have. I wearily pulled out my phone, looked at the bus app, and was relieved to see that three buses were scheduled  to arrive in the next fifteen minutes. I could wait fifteen minutes. And then I would be home, under that hot shower, and then snuggled up in bed with my cats and that hot cup of tea. It sounded like heaven at this point.

I waited. And I waited. After thirty minutes no tears fell. I don’t think I had the energy left for any type of emotion. I stared down the dark street, knowing that all the way down there, six blocks away, was my warm and dry apartment. I don’t know if I borrowed spoons from tomorrow, or just willed myself with the raw human need to not die on that bench, but I got up and started to put one foot in front of the other.

 I don’t know how long it took me to walk home from that bus stop. On a good day, I could traverse those six blocks in about ten mins. But today was not a good day. I don’t even remember the actual walking. Just one foot in front of the other. My wet shoes making squishing noises with each step; I know at some point my phone beeped. It was a text from my mom, telling me she had a cold. I responded that I was walking, and put my phone away. 

The next thing I remember was sitting on my bed, wrapped in a towel, still warm from the shower. My hot water kettle chimed that it was ready. My phone was beeping. My mom was telling me how sick she had felt all day. All I can remember is feeling so profoundly jealous of the people in the world who have someone to look after them. Someone to tuck them into warm beds, bring them cups of hot tea, and medicine.

I looked back on today, realizing my new reality, and cringed. A reality I had actually agreed to. 

“Go and live your life”, I’d said. 

“I’ll be fine on my own, I’m sure.” 

In fact I was so sure my disease couldn’t get any worse. I’d seen it all this year. Hospitalized for reoccurring Pericarditis, multiple ER trips for violent pain flares, chemotherapy, lymphoma, menopause, and now the new sleep apnea diagnosis… Surely it wasn’t going to get worse, right? Why do I always underestimate my disease? Why? 

And then in the first week I attempt to do this on my own, to show everyone who’s been pushing from the beginning, saying “Why can’t she look after herself?” or “She’s an adult, why does she need help?” or “She’ll be fine on her own”

Then…. This happens.

Have I shown you the truth yet? Are you ready to accept that my disease isn’t going away? Are you finally ready to open your eyes and see that not only will this affect me for life, but that it will just get worse and worse? That I need support? And not from some nurse that checks in with a daily phone call, but someone who physically checks in on me, to make sure I wake up every day. To make sure that days like today never happen again. Someone who helps me to my doctors offices, or insures I get my prescriptions filled on time, and to see that I’m eating something when my flares keep me bedridden for days on end. Someone who helps me keep a roof over my head, and food in my fridge, and my gas from being turned off.

Who is that person for those of us who have no husbands or wives, no long-term partners who can watch over us? Who is that person when a family member denies your disease exists?  Who is that person when the one person that does look after you has a partner who doesn’t understand this, nor do they want to? 

Who is that person when you’re facing being alone indefinitely? 

Who am I going to turn to the next time I run out of spoons and I’m not just a few blocks from home?

Who am I going to turn to? 

Who is left when the spoons run out?

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About sixthousandsteps

In March of 2013, I was diagnosed with chronic Rheumatoid Arthritis and was told my disease was very aggressive. Every day since then has been an ongoing struggle and life lesson on how to stay positive and keep fighting. This blog is a glimpse of how it all came to be, and who knows what the future holds.

Posted on November 30, 2016, in The Journey and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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