I sincerely feel that the mountainous obstacle facing people dragging a chronic illness is the cyclical pattern of any dream of release. We have all gone from specialist to specialist, gimmick to medication to gimmick again, traditional to holistic with the wide-eyed fear of a scared dear in our headlights. We often dread climbing aboard any new rollercoaster for it’s routed deep within our psyche. Hopeful expectations are raised with each new doctor or technique, but such dreams of release are generally dashed upon the rocks of reality.
These words might seem too closely bound to allegory to honestly portray chronic illness in current society. Our country spends stupendous amount of sums on medications that have been strictly enforced through strong American regulations. Side effects must be extremely minimal for the United States to sanction use. Adjectives like superior and life saving are surely attached to each pill or capsule swallowed in expectation to rid oneself of any hidden or visual disease.
Ridiculous! Let me phrase my thoughts in far simpler terms. Ralph gets an illness. He goes to a doctor. He gets a pill. He doesn’t get better. He goes to a specialist. He still doesn’t get better. Illness is now chronic. It’s been part of Ralph for at least 6 months. Ralph’s friends tell him of new doctors. He sees some of them. They offer new techniques. Stand on your head and whistle Dixie backwards. Ralph struggles until he can whistle better than anyone in American history. Ralph still has chronic illness. Ralph is told to change his diet. He now consumes only rutabaga and endive. Ralph still has chronic pain. Ralph is fortunate to go visit some of the best doctors in the world. He follows their advice to a T. He still has chronic pain. He cries. He goes to a local doctor. His emotions are flat. He just wants to feel better. He sits. He sits alone. He sits alone on his couch writing a blog. He wants others to understand something he can’t understand himself.
Surprise, surprise! I’m Ralph. I have drawers of medication that have been started and stopped and restarted with different dosages. I’m considered disabled. Sure, I get to stay home from work and avoid obnoxious administration, but I still have my chronic illness. I’m beginning to hate those two words even though I raised Stephanie forbidding her to use “hate” in any of her conversations in my effort to have the next generation wear lenses of pink. I hate it.
I still have chronic pain. Americans start with the term “acute” and switch over to “chronic” at six months. There needs to be a new term at a year or 5 years or more. My pain has been with me too long, and it’s not getting better. I try to laugh at my walk that resembles a drunken penguin, and I can generally at least smile at my tread. My words come out a stuttered mess, which is harder to accept. I fall. I look up into the eyes of people nearby and can’t express my feelings of the crushing pain in my head that made my body so furious that it dashed me to the ground.
Come sit with me. Don’t fret over me sitting in a puddle because that is where I fell. Don’t rush to me with names of new doctors because I’m tired of telling my tale again. I really can’t be expected to believe my pain will have any lasting relief for it’s been by my side too long. Let me wallow around and then come sit with me. I’ve learned to splash in the puddles, and sometimes that is ok. Puddles aren’t bad. I’ll soon stand up and change my clothes as I walk with the use of some device and swallow pills again. I’ll sleep too long because the medication makes me tired so come climb in my bed and snuggle in with a good joke.
My pain is no better. I’ve scheduled appointments with two different neurologists to discuss the frequency and duration of my migraines and vertigo. I have charts and graphs supplied by the finest. I’m a graduate of Loyola and mighty Mayo. I still can’t walk up to my bedroom tonight for my hips ache so strongly from my arthritis and fibromyalgia. I’ll soon ride up in style in our stair chair and lay next to my soul mate of two decades. He went to get the mail one day and never came back. Instead, I have a bitter gent who’s crumbling with his own pain and fights to help me without knowing how. Walking is a struggle, but we pray to walk down some beach leaving our pain behind somehow, somewhere, someday.
This is my life. I have chronic pain as does my husband. We want to improve our health, but we don’t know how. Medical teams don’t know how, so they prescribe a pill. It’s what we do in America.
So, don’t tell me I look better. Hogwash. I’m a fat, old lady that hurts. Don’t give me new names of doctors or techniques because I have files of recommendations still to fill. Instead, come sit with us. Hold our hands when it hurts, which is pretty much 24/7. Ask us about those grandbabies that are blessed distractions. They make us ignore our discomfort. We still want and need our friends, but we don’t know how. You probably don’t know how either or you still wouldn’t be sitting there reading this lengthy post.
Then pray for us. We need those supplications, and I’ll soon add my own. God knows my voice, and I’m trying to learn His. If I stop talking long enough, I’ll feel the Holy Spirit wash through me and leave behind a sense of peace. May you also have that peace knowing life is good.
Today's Way Shows Me Through Chronic Pain that Life is Good:
- God gave me a hubby who can share my puddles.
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