Some things you see coming. You know it's ahead and you make preparations. You fortify yourself and get ready.

But what do you do when you go from having the best time of your working life, in the middle of things, working hard, putting in more hours than ever to literally fall flat on your face? And not just once, from one fall, but from multiple falls? What do you do when your words fail you and the most interesting and incorrect words come out in place of what you meant to say? What happens when even in your head you fight aphasia? And when those words stick for the item? When it becomes a permanent replacement? What happens when you don't even notice you are screwing up your words?

 Doctor's appointments. MRIs. Blood tests. Nerve conduction studies. Specialists. No answers, some answers, recommendations to keep going to bigger specialists hours away. No thanks. I'll learn to cope since there's no fix.

Diabetic neuropathy to add to 27 years of fibromyalgia along with the other issues that make life interesting and challenging. Learning to accept that those burning patches are there to stay, and figuring out how to manage them by acknowledging them and then boxing them up in my mind, a container for each toe, each finger, each foot, each leg. Going through this routine until the pain is boxed up or I've fallen asleep.

And a walker. And a cane for when the walker won't work for the situation. And frustration at having to concede that driving is risky given the dizziness and brain fog, so that freedom is taken away 99% of the time. Learning to lean on my family and friends and admit weakness. And live with it. Own it. Get around it. Give it the finger when I've got bigger plans. Learning to plan around what I want to do so that I can do it. And accepting the price of that.


And since my fingertips are numb, and my wrists hurt, someone else gets my meds for me or she's picking up the whole bottle's worth that I've dropped. 

Learning to work from home, to teach online, to figure out how to get back into the classroom in the fall. Living with being home 24/7 and days that take on a regularity of being awake for awhile, asleep for awhile, and in pain all the time because the meds that work on the fibro and neuropathy also make me an even greater fall risk and give me a foggier brain. 

Surveying the living room from my recliner and watching the cats rub all over the walker, the dogs play under it, the kids occasionally sit in it. Accepting that it has become a part of the background in the three months it's been here. The cats even take turns being wheeled into the bedroom when I go that way for a nap. The dogs run ahead--they know when nap time is. I've gotten used to it, to what it is, what the cane is, what the permanent disability placard is: reinforcements.

With my walker, I can zoom. And I do. Sometimes, it feels close to flying, and there is joy in the zoom. With my cane, I feel older, more fragile. I trust the walker. I do not trust the cane. I certainly do not trust me. My balance is awful and I fall a lot. Into walls, bookcases, cabinets. Onto the ground. So, walker it is. Shiny and red and loved by cats who get rides and take naps on it.

Plus, I can match my outfits to it. As long as I don't start thinking I need a walker in every color. You know?


Stephanie Crist said...

My heart goes out to you! Not in pity, but in hope, to bear what must be borne, to accept what is, to appreciate that change and loss can lead to growth and discovery.

I applaud your choice to forego meds. I know the cost and I can only imagine how hard it is, even knowing the cost. I'm still taking mine, but every once in a while I have to reconsider the choices, the costs, the gains.

It's not easy. Adjusting never is.

I've been reading your words for years now and it always seems that you are ahead of me on this journey, whether it's autism or fibromyalgia or whatever else. You always seem to be "at" where I am "going." This makes it a special privilege to read your take on your experiences.

You are a hero. You are my hero. Not in that empty, distancing sense. But in the sense that I hope to do as well with all that I face as you do with all that you do.

Thank you for sharing. Thank you for showing me and others the way ahead.

K Wombles said...

Thank you, Stephanie. I've been meaning to respond, to tell you that your comment came on a morning I was in need of encouragement and kind words. It let me go off to the neurologist and get started on five days of high dose IV steroids for the optic neuritis I'd been diagnosed with the day before.

Thank you for being my friend. It means the world to me.

Stephanie Crist said...

It is my pleasure! :)