Yesterday, my husband was working on something in our garage and I had been inside with our sick kid for most of the day avoiding a trip to the grocery store.  The sun was so lovely coming through the windows.  Sick Kid and Dog kept moving around the living room but for very different reasons.  Dog was chasing the sun and Sick Kid was running from it.    I had been outside with him for about 5 minutes when I decided to lie down right there in the driveway.

Phone down, eyes closed, breathing deeply, I was there for a few minutes when Jason remarked, “You know, I don’t understand a lot of your crack pot wellness stuff, but THAT, that I get.”   I had to giggle…ok, snort, at him because I knew exactly from where the sentiment came.  I have tried (and will likely keep trying) all kinds of quirky treatments in hopes of finding relief of my stupid fibromyalgia.  In conversations, I’ve clarified numerous times that I’m sure even my own husband probably thinks I’m a quack.  His silence doesn’t fool me for even a minute.  And I am very well aware that some things are further out there than others.  (Also, I’m totally fine not only being a little quirky but letting him think that I am.  Adds character and keeps him on his toes.)

See, my vitamin D tends to run low.   Pause:  If you feel like crap, just go on and make yourself an appointment right now to have your Vitamin D, Vitamin B and Iron levels checked.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait…….   I’m sitting here waiting because these little asshole low levels have been the cause of my exhaustion and crying in the grocery store more than once.  Turns out, when I’m weak and exhausted, the grocery store is my arch nemesis. (Who knew?)   I don’t hate grocery shopping in general.  I just hate it when I feel like shit on a cracker.   And when my levels are low, I can’t get ahead of them.  Thus, my weekly shopping trip becomes harder and harder.  By the time I am within a few aisles of marking everything off the list, I can barely push the cart.  And for the love, please do not ask me to get bottled water AND sports drinks on the same trip.  Do you know how heavy that cart becomes when you put detergent, 2 gallons of milk (the children are eating us out of house and home, send money!), food for a week, bottled water AND sports drinks?  No?  Well, let me tell you, TOO DAMN HEAVY.  Heavy enough to bring tears.   That’s how heavy.

You know what does NOT help vitamin D levels?  Rain.  Clouds.  LACK OF SUN.  Listen, don’t crucify me here because I DO actually chase my children around with sunscreen like the helicopter mom that I like NOT to believe I am… BUT… hear me out…I may wait 20-30 minutes before I put on my own life jacket, uhm, sunscreen.   Or I may immediately apply it places that will easily burn but give my legs time to soak in some sunshine.  Is this the right way to protect my skin?  Am I soaking in some vitamin D even through my sunscreen?  I have not one single clue and I don’t give one single damn.  And of all the crazy stuff I read up on, this ain’t gonna be one of them.  I know that I feel better when I absorb some of that lovely vitamin D STRAIGHT FROM THE BEAUTIFUL SUN…even if it means a little pink here and there and even if it means being sprawled out in my driveway on the first sunny February day we’ve had in over a week!   And the fact that The Hubs “gets it”?  Well, that’s a bonus.

Now, go make an appointment.  I know you were fake dialing earlier.  Still waiting…

 

 

A few years ago, a dear friend of mine started experiencing an odd set of symptoms that didn’t really match. She searched high and low for a diagnosis and treatment plan but never really got the answers that she fervently sought. Her treatment plan was such that she saw improvement in selected symptoms but not the entire set. For the others, she made some lifestyle changes and ultimately although not completely cured she’s significantly improved a considerable part of the time.

Did you read that last sentence?   All those words just to say that she’s kinda better-ish. Welcome to invisible illness. Leave your definitive world behind and embrace the gray area because Honey, everything is gray area now.

Having all grades of aches and pains and unexplains myself, I could certainly identify except for one itty bitty detail: I didn’t have nor did I want a diagnosis. Looking back, I ran from my diagnosis for years. With Momma’s history, I probably knew what it was.   She sought a diagnosis and they told her she was crazy. Listen, I don’t need any verification on my crazy card and if they’d told me it was fibro what would I do about it?  Momma didn’t have options and neither would I.   But seeing my friend search high and low inspired me to do the same. Here’s a little nugget for you: rheumatologists are busy and in demand AND I am less than patient.   So I did a little barnyard research and found the best dang rheumatologist I could find who could get me in the same week.   His reviews were decent and his schedule was open. I’ll take it!

Fast forward a few years to my biannual check-up appointment this morning.   Turns out, the rheumatologist with the formerly open schedule is mild mannered and incredibly kind.  His practice has grown and yet he still spends lots of time listening to and caring for his patients. If I ever find the time to write a review I’ll give him five stars but his schedule is pretty packed so I hope you’re a patient patient!  (See what I did there?)

I don’t know exactly what I wanted them (him and his PA) to tell me or offer me but whatever it was they didn’t. He didn’t seem thrilled (but he didn’t argue) that I had reduced one of my medications (successfully, by the way) because I hate the side effects.   I do this EVERY year at least once or twice. We ramp up the dosage to my original script during the winter because duh, winter. (If I could hibernate like a bear, I would kiss my babies right after Christmas and settle in until just before spring break.)   And every spring, EVERY SINGLE SPRING, I try to bring the dosage down. I know my body. It doesn’t like the higher dosage. I will argue this to the end of the earth. Fortunately, he doesn’t make me plead my case. He goes along with me while very pleasantly trying to sell me on the higher dose.   Or maybe he caught wind of my stubborn streak and he’s choosing his battles. Bless his heart…and in the good way.

He asked if I’d ever been on some other med that I didn’t recognize but warned me that I’d have to give up my muscle relaxer (that obviously ain’t doin’ its job very well but I’ll take what relief I can get) because of the sedative effects of both. Uhm, thanks for protecting me but we are trying to solve the insomnia problem so should we really be concerned about an overly sedative effect? Kidding. I know, I know. Yes, we should. I’ll let him be concerned. Not sleeping tops my list of concerns so bring on the sedatives!!! Kidding. Not really. This girl needs some sleep.

Another friend recently said that managing her autoimmune conditions was like a full time job. No truer words have been spoken. Every week demands up to four appointments between acupuncture and physical therapy, stretching, time spent on heating pad and ice packs, rollers, baseball in a sock, sorting supplements and meds, thinking about exercising but fearing the ramifications….augh! Stop the madness!!!

Shit. There it is. The fear.

Fear paralyzes me.   I feared the diagnosis. I feared the lack of treatment. I fear the pain slowing me down so much that my kids and husband miss out on something. Heck, I don’t want to miss out myself. I want to live my life.  I fear the ramifications of what I eat, how I move, how I sit. I fear stress…not only bad stress but good stress too.

Annnnnnd there they are…the tears…I sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes composing myself and then I did what any Crier Over Cornbread would do….

I went to the pancake house. Don’t judge me. Any girl that cries over cornbread is going to drown her tears in maple syrup. You saw this coming. The eggs were fried and the pancakes were gluten free and I didn’t come home and make a pan of brownies. So, winning.

As I sat at the table I texted my sister (can we send up thank you for sisters and texting which saved me from ugly cryin’ at the shrine de pancakes?!) and clued her into my morning. I told her that I know that exercise will help but that weight lifting is scary. Stupid fear. Actually, my words were “I’m going rogue.” And that sentiment was all she needed to launch the ultimate pep talk.   She all but demanded that I stop seeking relief from the outside and instead turn inward. She reminded me of my strength and gave me license to live one second at a time. (Being the older sibling I changed this to hour but whatever. Who can manage second by second? I would be CRAZIER!) She told me she believed in me and that I am stronger than I think. She demanded that I harness the anger and make it my power. She said what I’ve thought over and over: I’ve lived with this crap too long.   And you know what? I choose to believe her.   I’m choosing her words over my fear.

My favorite piece of our conversation was when she recalled running behind someone wearing a shirt that read “run the mile you’re in.” I’ve often said that if this stupid fibromyalgia is my struggle, that I am grateful because it could be so much worse. Mornings like this one push that sentiment far off into the distance but she brought it back into focus simply by reminding me that I am strong and that someone, a very special someone, believes that I will someday get better.   Sometimes all you need is someone that helps you remember when you forget.

So tonight…tonight, I lifted weights. Not a lot of weight and not many exercises, but enough that my physical therapist will have to work a little harder tomorrow. And when she does, I’ll know it’s worth the pain because I am working through it and will come out on the other side stronger. Now ya’ll excuse me, my heating pad is a callin’!