“Now, my bandaged leg was tender and sore, and walking was more like a slow, laborious shuffle.
‘I know it’s hard now, but it will get better. This will pass,’ Ryan said. His tone was soft. Soothing.
I bit my lip, took a breath, and smiled.
Those were all the same words I have spoken to Ryan each time he’s been sick. Reminders that he’s not alone. Reminders that I’ll see him through it. Reminders that the discomfort (whether it was a high fever, a bout of vomiting, or a hard coughing) would pass and wouldn’t last forever.”
The passage above is taken from my personal essay, “Lessons Learned,” a reminder that our children are always watching, always listening, always learning from the adults in their lives. I’m proud to say my essay was recently published at MUTHA Magazine. Click here to read the essay in its entirety.
I’m pleased to share that my essay “Still My Hands” has been published in Issue V of ang(st): the feminist body zine.
Here’s a snippet of my personal essay:
“My hands will never again staple and design a bulletin board display. My hands will never write-out desk name tags or “happy birthday” certificates. My hands will no longer grade weekly spelling tests. Those days are memories of another time of my life, another identity.”
You can click here to be re-directed to ang(st) and read the essay in its entirety.
I admit, when the book was published back in 2011, it first caught my eye because of the title. There are only a few claims to fame for fellow Wendy’s: my name is said to have been invented by J. M. Barrie for his “frendy Wendy” character in Peter Pan, and I’ve got a hamburger fast food chain that shares my name.
But I re-read the book, because I needed to be reminded that I don’t have to fit into just one box, that one single thing doesn’t define me.
(In case you’re not familiar with the book, Being Wendy is the story of Wendy, a young girl who doesn’t want to choose to wear one box for the rest of her life. In her hometown, the rule is : “The Boxville way is to choose a box for the rest of your days.” She doesn’t want to just be a teacher, just be a police officer, just be any one thing. Her ideas and her dreams are too far-reaching, and one box just won’t work for her.)
Lately, it’s easy to lose sight of that.
I have been dealing with a multitude of tests and consultations with doctors, and in my experience, doctors don’t always take the time to see their patients as complete people.
And I don’t want to just fit into my “chronic illness” box.
I need to remind myself that there are so many other parts of me, so many other aspects of my personality that have nothing at all to do with the persistent pain in my left leg.
I’m a reader.
I’m a writer.
I’m a sunflowers-over-roses type of woman.
I’m a silver-over-gold type of woman.
I’m a singing-along-to-Abba-while-I-cook-dinner type of woman.
I’m a never-learned-to-whistle type of woman.
I’m a jewelry-wearer.
I’m a candle-burner.
I’m a chocolate-eater.
I’m an apple-juice-with-breakfast type of woman.
I’m a daily-to-do-list writer.
I’m a believer in good omens and signs.
I’m a pen pal.
I’m a former florist.
I’m a current home gardener.
And the list could go on. Which makes me smile.
I’m not just a woman with an autoimmune disease.
Regardless of what the tests show or don’t show, I’m so much more.
In one week, on two consecutive days, I had two very different medical experiences.
Day One: A follow-up with my rheumatologist. An appointment to “strategize” (his word) because after all my tests, he had no definitive answers or explanations to offer me. It’s been a lot of tests, even during the pandemic. A muscle biopsy, meetings with specialists, vials of blood (17 at one visit!), an MRI.
All these tests have ruled out a lot of really bad possible diagnoses. No red flags have been waved. And yet, we still don’t know why – why the pain has spread in my left leg.
I keep going to these appointments, I keep meeting with new doctors (a neurologist and a hematologist within the last few months) for two reasons. I remain hopeful that one day, someone will reach an “Aha moment,” something that gives us some answers, and most importantly, gives me some pain relief. But I also go to these appointments out of fear. Fear that my autoimmune disease is worsening. And when there’s something bad going on in your body, usually, the sooner it’s found, the sooner it’s caught, the better the prognosis.
And then, Day Two: I received my first dose of the Pfizer vaccination! Here in California I qualified, not because of my age, but because of my underlying health condition. And all I can do is marvel at it all. In one year’s time, this horrific pandemic changed our planet, took the lives of over half a million souls in our country alone. And yet, in one year’s time, a vaccine was developed, tested, and is being rolled out in increasing numbers.
And now I’m waiting. Waiting to meet with another specialist. Waiting for my second vaccination dose.
That’s my standard answer when I’m asked how I’m feeling. I hesitate to say more. I don’t want to tell them (my husband, my son, my parents) how bad my pain is, simply because there’s nothing any of them can do to ease my pain.”
You just read the beginning of my recently published essay “What I Really Mean When I Say ‘My Leg Kinda Hurts’.”
The reality is more complicated than that.
Click here to be re-directed to The Mighty to read my essay in its entirety.
I don’t look forward to these appointments. Especially when I’m seeing someone new.
I dread having to explain and describe my symptoms and my pain to yet another doctor. I’m tired of re-hashing my story, my medical history. I’m tired of trying to explain to someone what my days and nights are like.
And after all that, I’m tired of the non-answers, the uncertainty and confusion that my particular medical condition seems to present.
It’s been my experience that doctors could learn a thing or two (or eight) from teachers. A parent/teacher conference does, in fact, share similarities to a doctor’s appointment.
Click here to read my personal essay “8 Things Doctors Can Learn From Teachers.”