Wounded

"The softest things in the world overcome the hardest things in the world."~Lao Tzu 

Sometimes I feel no better than a broken, wounded animal.

After two months of trying to set up a meeting, I finally got to meet with the Fibromyalgia Counselor today. She is the preeminent authority on fibromyalgia in the county and the star witness in any court cases involving fibromyalgia. She is a PhD psychologist who specializes in biofeedback and had fibro for 20 years herself. Unfortunately, the meeting just raised more questions without clear answers. I still have no idea what ultimately triggered the fibromyalgia and I can't afford the sort of treatments she recommends unless I win Powerball and become filthy rich. Insurance doesn't cover Rolfing, massage, or acupuncture...and it only partly covers physical therapy.

I then skittered over to the hospital for the MRI of my liver. My doctor noticed some fatty build-up in the results of the sonogram I had several weeks ago to address the terrifyingly rapid weight-loss and painful indigestion-- both of which ultimately turned out to be caused by MMJ (a lengthy rant on the perils of MMJ is forthcoming). I showed up for my appointment on time, though the appointment with the Fibro Counselor had run over time, which meant lunch consisted of a banana and chocolate milk that I wolfed down while signing in for the MRI.

But though I was signed up early, I ended up waiting for three hours for the MRI before they finally started. (I caught up on some reading I've been meaning to do, but that's beside the point). The MRI blared and bleeped and cursed at me in sonic shrieks. But I fell fast asleep at the end of the MRI because the comforting closeness of the tube was the closest thing I've had to a deeply comforting hug in years...YEARS. (I should amend...friends give awesome hugs, but this was like MRI full body snuggle.) Even though the MRI had been shouting at me in magnetic resonance for 40 minutes, at the end it was silent and held me close and safe. I think the MRI was more affectionate than my ex-partner.

So if you see this: "Single multi-racial female age 32 seeks caring and compassionate MRI for long term snuggles/spooning!" in the want ads...you know who it is.

I may be a wounded creature, but humor helps-- it keeps me soft when times are hard.

Things Fibro Doesn't Let Me Take for Granted:

1. Typing. This shit hurts, so understand that I sacrificed to type this.

2. Walking. Going across the room for a cup of water can be stabbing agony. I have the smooth and elegant gait of the Crypt Keeper.

3. Driving. Forearms feel like the muscle is being peeled from the bone.

4. Picking up ANYTHING. No matter how light it is, it is 10 lbs heavier. Cell phone feels like a cinder-block. Putting a can of soup away feels like 40 lb arm press at the gym. Don't ask me how I got the groceries upstairs, but now my body lets me know I done fucked up.

5. Sleep. The only person I know who gets worse sleep is my chronically insomniac friend Brittany!

6. Sitting down. Are knees supposed to be on fire? No? Maybe? Definitely?

7. Social time. I'm already an introvert, it is already anxiety-inducing, but reading quietly in a waiting room has become as tiring as a marathon. Can I go home now? Please? :(

8. Loneliness. I won't say that I was never alone, I lived 6 months in almost complete isolation in a ranch 6 miles from a town of 800 people (and enjoyed it, except for the blizzards). Yet something about being trapped in fibro-pain on your own makes loneliness feel 1000 fold worse. But see #7... Ironic!

9. & 10. Fibro fog & wrists that feel like stigmata took away these observations in the few minutes it took to jot this note down. Damn you pain and memory-shredding crap-brain mush!