Today, I feel like you are hovering all around me, like you’ve fashioned yourself into a suit of scouring pads, hugging me tightly at every turn. I can’t remove you while you scrub into me. Abrasive to my peace of mind. Bruising me with invisible bruises.
I feel the weight of you with each move I try to make. Whether I sit, stand or lie down, each position brings its own individual challenges — stabs, jabs, or prickles of pain. Shooting pain or radiating pain. A never-ending menu of surprises.
I stare at you in the mirror sometimes, and it’s like staring at myself but more elusive.
This week, I noticed that I have worn a hole in my sheet with restless legs in pain at night.
I have no questions for you now — just making these observations so that I can remember these days.
Tonight, we gardened. It was a nice night — slightly humid as though rain was gathering up in the clouds. We were surrounded by the echo of children’s voices playing in a neighbor’s yard. I dug holes in the dirt, and you protested when I bent over to lift large clumps of the earth into my garden-gloved hands.
I moved some flowers that seemed to not be in the happiest place they could be, and I planted some new ones–two shocking fuchsia dahlias that will add a splash to the mix I’m mixing. It seems like every week I find a new plant to add — last week it was two beautiful lilies that remind me of my great-Grandmothers. Every time I see them now, I am reminded of my roots that go deep into the earth of Pennsylvania via Germany and Maine via Quebec and France and . . . beyond.
Oh, Fibro–I’m surprised by how easily I push you to the side when I’m in the garden, even if you’re nagging at me, causing me pain or just discouraging me from trying, from leaning in and breathing deeply. There’s something about that place, of breathing in the sharp smells of late spring earth, that transcends your boundaries for a while. I may have aches and pains tomorrow from the work, but they will be worth it. I am thankful for this patch of ground that I call home and thankful for the time, treasure and ability to cultivate and care for it.
This is our home, Fibro. We are living here together. That is why I want to make it the best that it can be. Maybe you’d be willing to lend a hand?