It's my favorite part of the summer season, as mounds of hydrangea blooms soften searing sun with their cool periwinkle frost of color, and their puffball sense of humor. These little clusters of joy are abundant through our neighborhood now, punctuating the more rigid corners and claustrophobic lines of our Victorian-era brickmakers' ward with a welcome reminiscent of ice cream and sprinklers.They welcome my eye and draw my hand to them to cup them so very gently, in a communion between petals and skin. I can feel both of us smile when I do.
I'm accepting many such invitations these days-- the slow and forgotten kind, of attentions both unusual and subtly exotic-- as I explore ways to entertain my "new" body, my fibromyalgia body. Hot days are spent as quietly as possible, with as little movement as possible, for I've not yet learned the limits of my "new" body, my fibromyalgia body.
Pain speaks to me constantly; a burning flame in my ankles, a sudden jolt in my rib, a "Voodoo-doll jab" (as one facebook friend put it) of a hot spike into my heel, a raking of nerve endings in my elbows, a vice of iron around my knees...
I've had to bow humbly to Big Pharma, accepting the blessings bestowed by Cymbalta, Tramadol, Gabapentin, Hydrocodone. This is a sad irony for one who has been so careful with diet and entertainments (go local! go organic! go natural!); and a bit of a slap in the face for an herbal fanatic and homeopathic enthusiast.
Somehow, though, I do not feel overwhelmed with anger; at least, I am as angry as my antidepressant pain relievers will allow me to be. And though most of my days are spend lying on the couch, mostly I'm just watching my pain, getting used to the idea that it's not going away.
There's an estimated 140 million people in the US suffering from chronic pain with an assumed growth of about 1% a year. Many of these conditions are of unknown origins, and many who suffer them must do so in silence, as chronic pain is not well understood (or accepted) in our pull-up-your-bootstraps society.
Hardest of all for me is not being able to apply myself fully to the work of raising my (very energetic!) son, who also has a central nervous system disorder (Sensory Processing Disorder); and also not being able to enjoy the process of writing and creating. How odd it is, when something as simple as touching a key on a keypad becomes an exercise in forbearance.
And so more often than that, I accept offers from random, puffy flowers and velvety leaves, and touch them, instead. I rest in the quiet of my mind, the gift of my zen practice that I can (at this point!) no longer rest within, and I blossom now as a foreign flower, altogether new again.
Pain speaks to me constantly; a burning flame in my ankles, a sudden jolt in my rib, a "Voodoo-doll jab" (as one facebook friend put it) of a hot spike into my heel, a raking of nerve endings in my elbows, a vice of iron around my knees...
I've had to bow humbly to Big Pharma, accepting the blessings bestowed by Cymbalta, Tramadol, Gabapentin, Hydrocodone. This is a sad irony for one who has been so careful with diet and entertainments (go local! go organic! go natural!); and a bit of a slap in the face for an herbal fanatic and homeopathic enthusiast.
Somehow, though, I do not feel overwhelmed with anger; at least, I am as angry as my antidepressant pain relievers will allow me to be. And though most of my days are spend lying on the couch, mostly I'm just watching my pain, getting used to the idea that it's not going away.
There's an estimated 140 million people in the US suffering from chronic pain with an assumed growth of about 1% a year. Many of these conditions are of unknown origins, and many who suffer them must do so in silence, as chronic pain is not well understood (or accepted) in our pull-up-your-bootstraps society.
Hardest of all for me is not being able to apply myself fully to the work of raising my (very energetic!) son, who also has a central nervous system disorder (Sensory Processing Disorder); and also not being able to enjoy the process of writing and creating. How odd it is, when something as simple as touching a key on a keypad becomes an exercise in forbearance.
And so more often than that, I accept offers from random, puffy flowers and velvety leaves, and touch them, instead. I rest in the quiet of my mind, the gift of my zen practice that I can (at this point!) no longer rest within, and I blossom now as a foreign flower, altogether new again.
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