Bad Weather Blues: Living with Rheumatoid Arthritis
I rise, my body cumbersome and heavy. My first task is securing water and medication: a pharmaceutical elixir to oil my creaking, tin joints.
The ice pellets crunch under my feet as I walk to my car, my body is stiff and sore from the change in temperature and pressure. Cold rain hits my face and hair, as I scrape the ice off my windshield, my hands throbbing in pain to grip the handle. The steering wheel is cold through my gloves and I do my best to clutch it firmly through the pain as I drive.
I stop for a coffee at my local cafe, the door is heavy to open.
I get to work and start my day.
It was a challenge to rise, a challenge to dress and a challenge to arrive, yet work needs to be done.
My finger joints are tender and stiff as I type at my computer, I realize I forgot my silver splints that look like rings that hold my swan neck deformity fingers in place for work.
My medication is running out, I make a call to refill my prescription and arrange for delivery. I know already I will not have enough energy to go myself.
How am I doing today? How am I being?
Each person that lives in pain, straddles the line of pushing themselves through and pushing themselves too far.
To live in pain is to live in awareness of our limitations and our mortality. Each day I wake, I am startling aware of what I will not be able to accomplish.
The glass being “half empty” is ever present in life with chronic pain; the tasks we can’t complete, the events missed, the tears shed, the pain screaming ever-present in the forefront of our consciousness. We are asked again and again to shift our perspective and see what is half empty as half full. If I have half a tank of gas, am I angry it is not full? No, but I am not a car. The issue with the “glass half full” perspective (as a remedy) is that I cannot take refuge or comfort in gas leaking from my tank.
You can’t bury your head in the sand; life moves on, the world keeps turning and at the same time, you can’t ignore the signs that your body is in an emergency. Alarm bells sometimes go off in my brain, “This is dangerous! This could be unsafe!” When the alarm bells go off, I know my body is trying to speak to my brain: “Listen to me, this is too much. Life is too much right now.” How do we head the warning?
So far what works for me, is I focus on conserving my energy and stopping the gas from leaking out of my tank. Are there medications I can take? Can I take a mindfulness or meditation break to calm my nervous system? Have I eaten? Am I thirsty? How can I be kinder to myself?
How can I be present when my present is painful?
Sometimes looking ahead at the whole day is overwhelming. I break down the day into more manageable pieces. I can break down the day into hours and deal with each hour as it comes. I then break down the hour into tenths. As a lawyer, I docket my work by the 10th of an hour. I use this same strategy in personal care.
Hope is the most important drug in my life. When it comes down to it, the medications I take for my rheumatoid arthritis only go so far to provide relief. Hope is a river you can bathe in, hope is a road you can get lost on. When applied appropriately, hope is the best companion to ride out a storm.
This morning, I hope that the afternoon will be better.
This day, I hope that others in pain find swift relief.
Above all, I hope my words find someone who needed them.