FOREVER

Today, this is me.

I went to bed last night thinking this thought and then barely slept. When I finally did fall asleep it was fitful and restless. I woke up thinking this thought. I showered, got dressed and through all of the morning routine I thought this. Following is how I described it to Jim the other day.

_______________________

Imagine when you wake up in the morning and you begin to put your feet on the floor to stand up but when your feet touch the floor someone takes a thousand needles and jabs them into your legs and feet.

Once you fight through that initial pain and you begin to stand up that same person who jabbed the needles in your legs lights a match and sets your hips and low back on fire. Your bladder is screaming because you need to go to the bathroom but first you have to pick yourself up off the floor because the pain was too much and your legs collapse. Once you stand again, you manage to take a few steps, holding on to whatever you can hang on to, and work your way to the bathroom. Your arms, shoulders and hands begin to ache because they are doing the job your legs are suppose to do by holding you up. Finally, after 10 minutes, you make it to the bathroom.


Now you begin the morning routine—shower, bathe, get dressed, comb your hair, make and eat breakfast, clean up the dishes. Let's talk about that for a minute. I don't know about everyone with Fibromyalgia or chronic pain issues but for me, my skin feels like it is always sunburned. I pick my wardrobe not because of style but for texture. I used to wear jeans but now they hurt. I could wear non-stretchy shirts—not anymore. They hurt. Socks kept my feet warm because when they are cold they hurt, but now just having socks on hurts.

My favorite place in my house is my bathtub. I love to soak in a long hot bath. It relieves the soreness and ache from the muscles but if the water is even a degree to warm the fire that shoots through my body is torture.

When I shower, the water pounding on my skin makes me cry (I hate crying but I seem to do it lot). I won't go without bathing so I fight through that struggle. Then I stand in the closet trying to figure out what I might be able to put on that won't cause pain all day.

I have long hair. I have almost always had long hair. When I did have short hair, I hated it but my Mother made me keep it short, so I did. As soon as I was allowed, I let it grow. I love my hair, except in the morning when I have to brush it. My scalp hurts and my hair falls out in clumps sometimes and it breaks my heart. Luckily, I haven't lost too much. I get it brushed and pulled into a messy bun or a ponytail. Another battle done.

I went to bed hungry last night. I go to bed hungry nearly every night, not because there isn't food in the house. Stephen and Jim don't go to bed hungry.

My body rejects food. I can keep small amounts down but not enough to ever be "full." I have lost over 150 pounds in the past couple of years. I am still overweight but am malnourished. I take vitamins and supplements but usually throw those up, too. It is a constant battle. I can summarize breakfast on one word—nope. I will eventually eat a piece of toast or a small bowl of cereal or fruit but not usually until afternoon. I just figure, "Why bother? I am tired of throwing up."
On to the dishes—normally I will have Stephen empty the dishwasher and as the day goes on and I begin to prepare dinner I load the dishwasher. Handling dishes and the hot water required to clean or rinse them stings my hands. Loading a dishwasher isn't so bad as gravity works with me.

Unloading is entirely different. Because my hands feel like a foot that fell asleep, I don't always have a strong grip, or can't feel the dish at all. Bending over shoots pain like rubber band snaps into my hips. Pulling dishes upward makes my shoulders and arms hurt. So even mundane tasks become a type of warfare, and a judgment call on how much "fight" energy I can allocate to this task, leaving me enough for what I know I'll need for the rest of the day.

Sounds like a fun life, right? Imagine almost all of that is the first hour of my day. I haven't even gotten to what it is like to grocery shop, run errands, take Stephen to any activity he wants or needs to go to, do laundry, clean the house, make beds, take my Mom where she needs to go—getting her walker in and out of the car with each location—make sure she has food in her apartment, home school Stephen and keep track of his schooling, Blog, Vlog, cook healthier as an attempt to improve how I feel.

Now how does it sound? Want to trade places? I don't blame you. I wouldn't either.

Now imagine these words:  
FOREVER

INCURABLE
ENDLESS
PERMANENT
RECURRENT
CHRONIC

Imagine these words relating to the one hour a day in my life that I just described. When you have an incurable, chronic illness, these words are some of the scariest words in the dictionary. If you have a chronic illness, then you understand the gravity of what it means. If you don't have a chronic illness or live in chronic pain, you may consider thanking God in heaven that you don't, and for the ease at which you got to your knees.

Does this mean I am giving up? Again one word—NOPE!

Living, to me right now, is existing. I exist. I will admit it freely. I don't enjoy my life, and I spend quite a bit of time asking God, "Why me?"

Then I think, "Why not me?"  It is easy to focus on the pain and the hurts and what I can't do. It is easier for me to feel sorry for myself than for me to get up and face the day knowing what the first hour will be. It is easier to ask why than to fight through. That isn't me.

Chores and daily tasks are one thing. I've learned to push through the pain. But when even a simple expression of love—a hug—hurts me physically, I push through the pain again because a hug is what my heart needs. The pain of a hug is sometimes a lot, but the love my heart receives in a hug is greater than the pain.

I have spent most of my life fighting for life. From childhood, nothing has ever been easy. I lived in a dysfunctional, abusive home. It is VERY hard for me to admit but I have to. I have to be honest with myself, and with my readers or I am doing this for nothing. I don't give up—I want to, a lot, but I don't.

I have a lot to fight for. I love my husband and my son with every fiber of my being. I may get mad at them or we may argue (who doesn't?) but I know they have my back. Sometimes the fight in me is just because I can't stand it anymore. Sometimes it is because I have had enough and am over it. Sometimes it is because the word FOREVER hits me and I realize this is my life.

There is no cure for what I have. There is no magic pill to make it all better. I refuse to take narcotic pain meds. I don't have a problem if others take them, but it isn't my choice. I don't like the way they make me feel, and if I am already going to feel poorly, then what is the difference? I have a friend whose husband had a liver transplant. The anti-rejection drugs he had to take destroyed his kidneys. For me, that is not something I want to risk to just hide the symptom.

I will continue to get up every morning—even when I want to die. I will continue to teach my son—even when I can't focus very well. I will continue to do laundry—because my boys and I need clean clothes. I will continue to fight everyday for my life—even when the pain seems unbearable. WHY?

Because life is worth fighting for. Jim and Stephen are worth fighting for. Mostly, though, because

I AM WORTH FIGHTING FOR

Vikki

"BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD"

Psalm 46:10