I grew up with Disney, and fairytales, and romance. I grew up believing one day my prince would come and sweep me off my feet and save the day.
In my twenties I quickly learned how silly these concepts were. That Disney wasn’t real, that fairytales were rare, and that there was no prince waiting on a white horse.
In my early thirties, I woke up one day with Severe Rheumatoid Arthritis. In the six years that have passed since then I’ve learned that my body wasn’t made for romance, fairytales, and dreams come true.
I don’t know what the meaning of life is, or why we are here, and what we as humans are meant to do. But I’ve come to realize that I my body and mind were meant to endure colossal amounts of pain.
Pain from the diseases in my body that won’t quit multiplying. Pain from cancers that won’t give up. Pain from being destroyed from inside out. And the pain from being constantly let down by those who don’t stay.
If my body was meant to endure such stress and pain, why give me a heart and mind that is so vulnerable to the human condition?
Why let me know sadness and sorrow, heartache and loss? Was the physical endurance not enough for one person to take? Must I feel the destruction of everything inside on such a monumental level?
I don’t understand why I was made to experience so much pain. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
Today I was on a video chat with my dad and he said something that has really stayed with me.
We were talking about my disease, “the gift that keeps on giving”, and how despite the odds I’m always optimistic.
Yesterday I got out of the hospital again. It was my second hospital stay in two months, not a great average for someone like me.
In September I was in the hospital for six days, with an esophagus complication that was never really resolved. In those six days I developed a cold that I still have, and blood clots in my arm from a perforated vein via IV insertion.
The cold is annoying yes, but the blood clots ended up being a real shit. I had plans to go to a friends wedding in California, just a few weeks later, which ended up not happening.
My dad has planned to pay for my tickets but the clots caused him unease and he reneged on our deal. (I later found out I couldn’t have gone anyways due to not being able to fly with clots in my arm.) Unseen problems that turned into a big mess. Fairly sure I lost a friend or two over it. The ongoing cost of a disease I didn’t ask for.
Early Monday morning I woke up with a sharp pain in my right thigh. It was a confusing place for pain in my body to be, as it wasn’t near a joint. Rheumatoid Arthritis attacks the flesh around your joints, but this felt like someone was slowly sawing off my thigh bone.
When the pain became unbearable I took myself back to the Emergency Department. This time, unbeknownst to me, I had a clot in my leg. A very large one, deep in my thigh, known as Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT). This was a serious matter as if the clot broke it could travel to my lungs or brain and I could die instantly.
After many tests and overnight observation, it was concluded that I must take twelve days of self injections in the belly (ouch!), followed by three months of blood thinners. No flying for me anytime soon..
Now out of the hospital, and limping around on a cane, I’m packing up my room to move this weekend. An unfortunate overlap in my current reality. I took a break and called my Dad on What’s App to check in and update him on my status.
After I told him about my hospital stay, the medication options available, and my recovery time, he looked stricken. I told him not to worry, I’d dealt with bad before, I could do it again.
He said “You’re right. No one else could do what you do.”
That statement has really stayed with me.
“No one else could do what you do.”
It reminds me of a conversation I had with my partner the other day about ‘reality’. (We’d been watching American Gods, a show about the unknown of our world, and the idea of creating your own reality, your own fate.) I asked him if that were true, then why would I create a reality in which I was always in pain? Seemed a bit strange for someone to want to go through that on purpose.
It was an odd show to be honest….
That conversation stays with me too. Coupled with the notion of “no one could do that but you”, I’m left wondering.
People have told me before that they didn’t know how I could get through the things I have. Didn’t know how I coped with the pain, the depression, the unknown fate of someone with an incurable disease.
And I think about it too.
I think about it a lot.
When I was a kid I was such a wimp. Paper cuts would end in tears, a scraped knee would be the end of the world. I couldn’t lift weights like others in high school during PE. I wasn’t a very physical person at all.
Now it’s been almost six years that I have lived through pain that most couldn’t conceive. Bearable pain that I live with daily would send most people to the Emergency Department. I live with things that I never imagined I would have to. I’ve been in hospital more times than I can count. I’ve experienced heart attacks, survived lymphoma, survived cervical cancer, and broken several bones from hugs.
I live with Rheumatoid Disease, Osteoporosis, Fibromyalgia, Lung Disease, and Lupus, daily.
“No one else could do what you do.”
Maybe he is right. Maybe they all are.
I may not have been ‘born for this’, but I live with it on a level that many could never conceive.
Because they will never see it on my face. I wear my Disease like a smile on my face. I stay optimistic, I stay positive. Because I have to.
No one else can do what I do.
I was looking through #quotestoliveby on Instagram tonight and came across three small words.
“little by little”
I’m sure that this is probably a mantra for many, as it could encompass so many aspects of life. It might have been written to encourage people to strive for their goals, to not give up. Maybe to save their pennies, and go for that dream vacation. Or keep chipping away at their education, until they’ve succeeded in their dreams.
I used to love seeing quotes like this. I’d save them to my quotes board on Pinterest. I even contemplated getting some of them as tattoos, so powerful a message they were, I wanted them as a permanent reminder.
But tonight I see these words and they don’t speak to me as they once might have. I see “little by little” as a reminder of my mortality. I see it as my disease chipping away slowly at my body from the inside out.
Little by little my bones grow brittle and break more often.
Little by little my fatigue consumes me to where I wonder if I can get out of bed again.
Little by little my hair falls to the floor.
Little by little the drugs fail and I wonder what will be next if I’ve already tried everything.
A lot of people have commented on how strong I am about my disease, how in control I seem, how optimistic. They don’t realise that this is the mask I must wear, my uniform. Because if I share how scary it is to not know when the end is, then I’m being “dramatic” or “looking for attention”. No one wants to hear when the chronically ill are suffering. It’s a nuisance, something that should be kept to themselves. So we do. We keep it in. We become experts at the “I’m ok”.
But there are days like today, moments where the gravity of everything collapses our resolve. It might be a song on the radio, or a comment someone made at dinner, or that moment when we look in the mirror while washing our hands. Everything we hide from everyone, including ourselves, shatters. We remember what we are going through and how bad it is.
So tonight, when I read those three words, I remembered that little by little my body is dying. And that just sucks.
For those of us who take forms of chemotherapy for our disease, it’s a pretty big deal.
It’s bad enough that we get flak from the cancer community for using the term “chemotherapy” when explaining our biologics, when that’s what it actually is! I get that some of us aren’t on the high doses that cancer patients are on, BUT IT IS STILL CHEMO AND IT STILL HITS US HARD. It’s not a competition to see who’s on the worst drug or dosage.
I’ve been on biologic infusions for a couple years now. That means that I willingly consent to toxic chemicals being pumped into my body in the hopes that it makes me well. Sometimes, they do. I have unfortunately been on the other end of that a few times. The last time my body didn’t like chemo, the backlash consisted of multiple heart attacks and an eight day stint in the ICU.
It’s not a competition, so don’t tell me the chemo I take doesn’t have a toll. I get nauseated and vomit for hours. My body turns to lead and I have to sleep like the dead for up to 20 hours sometimes, just to recoup. AND my hair falls out.
Its gotten better over the years. The first time I went on chemo it came out in large clumps, to the point where I had to cut my hair short to hide the gaps. These days it doesn’t fall out en masse. But it does fall out! I have strands all over my floor, all over my pillows, and all over my bed and sheets. It sticks to my clothes, and it stands out cause I’m a redhead these days. You really can’t miss it.
It makes me very self conscious. You don’t need to tell me my hair is everywhere, I KNOW. No one knows better than me!
Most people are pretty cool about it. Sometimes they pick it off me discreetly, or mention I have a chunk sitting on my shoulder. I blush, take care of it, and we act like it didn’t happen.
You know what’s not ok?? Acting like you’re put out because my hair is in your vicinity. I’d love to not have my hair fall out, but I didn’t choose to be chronically ill, and I certainly don’t love being on chemotherapy. Have some fucking sympathy or compassion. But saying “Ew your hair is everywhere” or refusing to touch things in MY room because the hair “grosses” you out… Like are you serious?
How entitled do you have to be that you shame me for something I can’t control and hate about myself?!?! That shit is not ok. And while in my naivety I may have put up with it in the past, I will not longer.
No one in any circumstance is allowed to make you feel bad about yourself or your circumstance. EVER. That shows their insecurities, not yours.
So that will no longer fly with me. Nor should it for anyone else.
This is my first post in a few months… Mostly because my life really hasn’t been that exciting. Life with chronic illness gets like that sometimes. Our pain rises and wanes, we go through slow, inactive periods, etc.
Since its been awhile, you may be expecting a typical rant of hating the healthcare system, wishing doctors had better bedside manner, or the unending disbelief at how people treat the disabled. But, this is not the fruit I bear today. Today I want to talk about false advertising.
Now we may not realise it, but false advertising is EVERYWHERE. It takes a keen sense of snooping out the bullshit that the world is dishing out these days. Not just on that $236 eye cream made from expensive japanese fungus that ensures you’ll look like a 12 year old if you use it everyday for 3 months, cause anyone who falls for that is just asking to be scammed.
How about those medical commercials that tell us if we use this new biologic we too can look like the model they hired for the commercial, hiking up Everest like it’s nothing. I know Big Pharma is trying to sell some drugs, but come on. I’d like to be sent the file of every woman who took chemotherapy for a year and then decided to be a cross fit instructor because she’s cured.
I know I’ve covered this before, but recently I dealt with false advertisement, and it all came rushing back. I was at a restaurant this past Monday, and was perusing the dessert menu when I got excited. It said they had “American Cheesecake”.
Now this may not seem like a big deal to most, but I live in New Zealand now, where “real cheesecake” doesn’t exist. They make the unbaked version here which is more like a mousse. Im not saying that’s a bad thing, it’s just not MY thing. I love baked cheesecake. It’s firm, creamy, and always has a delicious buttery crust. So, when I saw American Cheesecake on this menu I was stoked. Of course I ordered it. It arrives….
(Insert exasperated sigh here)
WHY YOU LIE TO ME MENU???!!
What appeared on the plate in front of me could maybe have been identified as flan… but we would really be pushing it.
•Weird custard texture that tastes and feels reminiscent of hospital grade pudding.
•Very odd gelatinous layer on top that tastes like melted Lego
I was OUTRAGED. If they wanted a creative and inviting name they could have gone with anything. Why lie to me and say American Cheesecake??? Just say ” this is our version of what smelly gym clothes and a pudding cup would taste like if they had a baby”.
FYI- I think one of the worse disappointments in the world is ordering a dessert and it ending up being awful. This coming from someone who lives with chronic illness daily. You don’t mess with dessert.
Four days later, I’m still stewing about it, AND I still haven’t had any goddamn CHEESECAKE!!
Hmm, I guess this did end up as a rant after all…
Here’s the thing… I’ve been sick for 5+ years. I’ve gone through things with my body that most couldn’t possibly imagine. There have been months where getting out of bed was akin to willingly cutting my own leg off with a chainsaw. I’ve worked at a desk when most would have been in an emergency room. When you become chronically ill, you learn to live at a level most would deem insane and impossible. We do it because we must. Or we wouldn’t be alive at all. So…
Moral of the story:
Don’t falsely advertise to the chronically ill. We don’t always have much to look forward to in daily life, so don’t make it worse lying to us!
It’s been almost two months since I made the huge decision to quit Prednisone, a steroid that I have been on for five years. Five years of slow but sure weight gain. Five years of my body using the drug as a band-aid in attempts to mask my pain but not help it.
There have been times in the past two months that I’ve seriously considered going back on it. There have been moments where I realized what a strong band-aid it had been, keeping me more mobile when I was on it than I am now.
But then there are days like today, where I look in the mirror and see my body’s relief at being able to lose what it had gained. I may still have pain, I will always still have pain. But at least I got my body back.
And that’s good enough for me.