Yesterday was some better. I felt terrible in the morning, but I was eager to see my friend Faith and optimistic about my pain levels, so we went on a couple of short adventures to a craft store and to Chipotle before resting at home for a bit. Thankfully, Faith helped me with my wheelchair in the craft store, so I could contemplate the size of canvases and the bright colors of acrylic paints instead of the size and shade of my joints. I am always so hesitant and embarrassed to use the wheelchair; the night before I texted Faith and asked if my using it would freak her out, a reflection of my paranoia rather than my rock-solid trust in her. But all in all using the wheelchair was a good experience. I wasn't hurting so badly and no one stared at me. The cashier even directed her questions at both Faith and I. Typically if I am using the wheelchair the questions are only asked toward my more physically capable companions.
After using the wheelchair in the morning my knees were feeling significantly better by the afternoon (in this case, significantly better was still extremely painful, but you have to take what you can get when you can get it). I could tell that much of the fluid was gone, and while my wrists and finger joints were in an excruciating amount of pain I felt much more like myself being able to maneuver around on my own. Of course, it doesn't help that this flare is coinciding with the Summer Olympics. As I watch athletes joyfully compete and push their bodies to the ultimate limit, I wonder why the limit for my own body seems to be crawling under a blanket and carefully finding a food that my stomach can hold down.
Unfortunately, it seems that for my pitiful joints all (relatively) good things must come to an end. Last night was met with more nausea and more knee pain. My attempts to sleep were fruitless; I was jet-lagged and unable to find a comfortable position for my puffy knees. Fatigue slammed into me mercilessly, like a towering, repetitive wave, but I was not even close to falling asleep. So I found myself trying to make a college packing list, reading articles about the Olympics, and, quite frankly, feeling sorry for myself and wondering how I will ever be capable of accomplishing all that I am striving for in the midst of so much relentless suffering.
This is when my smallest pet, a petite black cat named Brooke with a quiet and sweet disposition, stepped up to the job. She softly meowed before silently jumping up onto my bed and beginning the process of nestling into the crevices of my joints, her favorite place on any human. I welcomed her presence, feeling alone, and gently pet her head after she laid near my hip.
It was only when she decided to reposition that an issue arose. She declared the most comfortable spot on my body to be the small space between my awkwardly bent knees, and began making herself a home. Of course, this caused excruciating pain on my end, the kind that made my head spin a bit and tears burst out of my eyes, and I instinctively and immediately tossed her off of me and onto the end of the mattress where my small frame does not stretch. Brooke understandably lost all of her trust in me and scattered off the bed, running to climb through the cat door and escape my cruelty (disclaimer: I didn't physically hurt her, but it certainly seemed like I broke our bond).
This brief episode completely freaked me out. Part of the backstory to this is that while we were in Hawaii, our dog brushed right up against death and had to have emergency surgery. She is still in recovery, but I have never felt so relieved as I did when we arrived home and she greeted us with her usual skate around the hardwood floor and excited mouth-breathing. Needless to say, I am currently feeling very grateful for the pets in my life and for the unconditional love they demonstrate every day.
I felt absolutely horrible about lashing out against Brooke. I sobbed, regarding myself as no greater than a parasite, receiving love and returning it as pain and regret. How could I dismiss such a tiny, precious creature who has literally made no mistake in her entire life? How could I let this disease turn me into a monster?
The truth is, I'm not a monster. I'm just a 17-year-old girl experiencing a ridiculously abnormal amount of pain, trying desperately to protect myself from the damage inflicted by walking and chewing and cats.
I considered myself unforgivable for sending Brooke away when all she wanted was a warm place of affection to retreat to late at night. And isn't it so much more than that? Doesn't it seem like this is what I am always prone to doing when the pain becomes severe? People draw close to me in an attempt to hold my head above the raging waters, to ensure that I am able to gasp for air, but their hold hurts and so I abruptly swim away, allowing myself to drown and scarring friendships in the process. It seems as though those who love me the most, even down to a beloved little cat, suffer the greatest consequences of my pain as well. It doesn't seem fair.
|Brooke snuggling near my painful wrist a few|
years ago, being ever so gentle and sweet.
Even on the most unbearable of nights, I always find myself experiencing grace, forgiveness, and love.