Here I am climbing back into the saddle and it feels a little stiff and awkward, I hope you’ll bear with me. I have been living in the shadows the past several months, out of touch and out of gas.
Sometimes it feels as if the world has ganged up against you. I felt that way when my son was diagnosed with cancer at 3 (he’s fine now) and again when my hip replacement failed.
It took seven months for the doctors to figure out that my torn hamstring was actually a loose part of the original hip replacement, which was only 1 year old. Fortunately, once the diagnosis was made I was scheduled for hip replacement revision surgery soon after. Three months later I am just now coming out of recovery.
So it isn’t unreasonable, I think, to feel a little picked on by the universe. I mean seriously, didn’t I pay my dues with my son’s 3 years of chemo? No? What about . . . and don’t forget the . . . as well as . . . But my tirade against the fates changed nothing, and like so many of us I had little choice but to resign myself to the pain until it passed or I learned to live with it.
In those six months, I learned a few things, beyond how to uproot myself from a chair. Without noticing, I built myself a cozy little shell. Of course it didn’t happen all at once, but in little bits. Already an introvert, the reasons to stay home came quickly to mind. I found my pain enough reason to skip game nights, choosing to play via Skype or not at all. Parties became too much to deal with as did most other outings. I know what you’re thinking, that’s all reasonable, so what’s the big revelation?
The big revelation was the cost of that pain. Though staying at home seems reasonable, my reclusion went beyond physical consequences. I had gone silent, choosing to suffer in silence rather than explain why I couldn’t or wouldn’t be somewhere. I was struggling, but I felt the societal pressure to grin and bear it. I chose silence rather than attempting to clarify how much pain I was in, pushing myself to fulfill my normal day to day duties. Still, clearly I was slowing down; I needed a cane to walk and a cushion to comfortably sit. Worse, I extended myself physically, repeatedly, knowing the price would be a ratcheting up of my pain for a day or two. I felt I was a burden on everyone around me, so I struggled to do things for myself rather than ask for help, hiding the pain. But that reticence to explain myself or ask for help translated into silence and isolation.
It took some objective observation and guidance from a friend to provoke my epiphany. Suddenly I realized how disconnected I had become and reconnection would be an uphill battle I wasn’t sure I was up to. A certain diagnosis and treatment gave me the push I needed to try.
Once I was on a better track I was able to see how pain not only isolated me but isolated anyone dealing with chronic pain. The fading presence of my friends with FibroMyalgia, and other chronic pain issues, became clearer as the puzzle pieces of why slid into place. It’s sad that often we can’t see what is in front of us until we are standing (or sitting) in a similar space.
This journey through pain brought several realizations. I am more aware of the cost of pain and how exhausting it can be to put on a brave face. I now see how difficult it is for some of my friends to show up and I’ve resolved to be more proactive about going to see them. Friends don’t let friends isolate themselves.
Broomstick Musings 