When we were sick as children there was always that one person who could make us feel better. Or at least help us get through our qualms faster. It could have been a favorite aunt, a grandparent, or an older sibling, but for me as an only child, it was my mom. And when I was really sick (with a bad cold, or the flu, or maybe belly aches,) she became ‘Mommy’, and Mommy could do no wrong. She anticipated when I needed hot tea, another warm blanket, help to the bathroom, or sometimes just a hug and a channel change (our first cable box in the 80s didn’t have a remote). When we were young these relatives that helped us were more like superheroes, they could do no wrong, and they cured our ailments with a well timed cup of hot chocolate.
I miss those days. The days of waking up and only needing to holler down the hallway for help, and in flies Super Mom to the rescue. But those days are long gone.
I didn’t even have to open my eyes this morning to know it was a bad day. Every inch of my body was silently screaming. The trek to the bathroom was child’s play compared to the excruciating job of getting up off the toilet once finished. My knees said no. My hands and wrists said no. My arms and shoulders, feeling like broken bones flopping around inside my skin, said no. If only Mommy had been there to help. To soothe me with soft words and French toast.
Everything hurts. My hands are the size of baseballs, my fingers won’t bend. Crying does nothing to help soothe except bring my confused cats into the room with pleading meows to feed them more. Oh the joys of motherhood.
I want some hot tea. I want to watch Cartoon Express on USA. I want hot oatmeal and another blanket. But no one comes when I holler down these halls. The pain stays.
Gone are the days where our knights in shining armor are here to make us well. Gone are the days of walking into a kitchen to a ready made breakfast. Gone are the days that a hug makes all the difference.
Gone are the days of Mommy making it feel better. I hurt all over. And no one is here to fix me.
If you would like to help me, please visit my donation campaign at Christine Lilley’s Life Fund
That’s what my body feels like.
Like every single bone has shattered, and the pieces are just bouncing around inside my skin.
Every movement is an excruciating practice in immobility.
Standing is impossible. My feet feel like they are made of broken bones, pushed together as if in a sand box with no escape. Each step worse than the one before.
My shoulders feel dislocated, my elbows cracked. If I move my arms above my head I can almost feel the pieces rubbing together, mocking me with their torturous pain.
It all feels broken.
My hips laugh at me as my whole body shakes in a desperate attempt to get comfortable. They mock me as I feel bone grind against bone.
My hands look deformed. Each finger swollen beyond recognition, purple and distorted. Once long and slender, all they look like now are the broken tools of something that once was.
I cry. And it hurts. The broken feeling bones shake under my skin as I take deep breaths attempting to regain control of this body that doesn’t feel like mine.
I feel broken.
It feels broken.
I am broken.