I am pleased to share that my personal essay, “An Unplanned Path,” has been published in the most recent issue of Cosmic Daffodil Journal. You can click here to read the essay in its entirety. (The theme was “NATURA,” and nonfiction submissions had a 300-500 word count limit.)
In addition, Cosmic Daffodil Journal has created a free e-book, which will soon be available for download on the website, so you can read all the fine pieces of writing included in NATURA.
One year ago, my family and I were in Maui. (If you missed it, you can read my post about our fantastic trip by clicking here. My son took this photo during our zip lining adventure.)
This year, we’re in the almost-done-planning stage of our summer trip, happening later this summer. (I’ll be writing about this summer’s trip in a blog post next month. Stay tuned!)
If I’m being honest, I do have to admit that I am a bit worried.
The truth is I’m very good at keeping it all together, of making my life, my family’s life, look like everything is under control. Because it is — in many ways. But I’m also dealing with incredible amounts of daily pain. I’m trying to get through my days while struggling with high levels of fatigue, unexpected muscle twitches, and knees that make bending painful.
Will I come home feeling more intense pain than I did before the trip? Maybe. But also, maybe not.
Will I have hours during our trip when my left leg will feel wobbly and shaky like Jello on a dessert plate? Maybe, but maybe not.
Two family members have voiced their concerns about the trip. “Won’t it be too much for you?” I was asked.
“Probably,” I answered.
But we’re still going. I am not going to let my chronic illness stop me.
“Living with an autoimmune disease has caused me to re-define words I thought I knew. Words I thought I understood. Words like strength, weakness, and pain don’t mean what they once did. Their definitions have grown and expanded, because living with a chronic illness causing chronic pain is hard. And I’m doing it every day.”
The paragraph above is an excerpt from my personal essay, “Every Day Resilience.” I am pleased to share that my essay has been published in Fahmidan Journal Issue 15: Thyroid and Autoimmune Warriors. You can click here to read it in its entirety.
The other morning, as I drove home, I heard the song “Save Your Tears” by The Weeknd on the radio. I had taken myself to my favorite neighborhood cafe for some outdoor reading and writing time.
“Save Your Tears” is a song I’ve heard a fair amount of times. Usually it’s a song I listen to, a song I enjoy. But this time, it actually brought me to tears.
I parked the car and sat inside for a bit. I didn’t want to run the risk of seeing any of my neighbors, I didn’t want to have to try and explain why I was crying, because I wasn’t quite sure.
I don’t think it was any one thing.
Actually, there were a number of reasons I could have been crying.
For over two weeks now, I’ve been dealing with a pinched nerve, which at its worst led to tingling down my arm, into my right hand and fingers. It has created pain and tightness in my neck/shoulder area. It has made everyday things like brushing my teeth and washing my face harder to do. But that wasn’t why I was crying.
Since my son’s high school hosted Open House, about a month ago, I have had extreme pain in both my knees. It’s difficult to bend and pick up something that I dropped. It’s too painful to squat and pull weeds out of my garden. So I plop down onto the sidewalk and weed my garden and then have to figure out a way to get back up. But that wasn’t why I was crying either.
I think it was the lyrics, the simple repetition of “Save your tears for another day.”
Because I do that, all the time. I save my tears for another day or another part of the day. I stop myself from crying in the Ralphs parking lot, as I load our bags of groceries into the car. I don’t cry as I unlock our front door, but wait until I get inside where no one can see me or hear me.
And that is the bottom line — where no one can see me or hear me. Because it’s been my experience that me crying — out of pain, or fear, or frustration, or weariness — makes those around me uncomfortable. Which means on top of me trying to take care of myself and let the tears out, I’m left trying to soothe and reassure my family while downplaying my tears and whatever it was that caused me to cry in the first place.
Except.
Except the other day during my virtual therapy session. I cried. I cried multiple-Kleenex, nose-running, red-blotchy-eyes kind of crying. Because I generally keep everything in. I am so good at biting my tongue. At keeping my stoic game face on. At not letting on how hurt I really am. How much pain I really feel. And how much help I need.
I wouldn’t say I felt “better” after my crying session. But I definitely didn’t feel worse, either.
“After a year and a half of talking with one doctor after another, it was Dr. W, a rheumatologist, who explained my mystery illness.
‘It’s an autoimmune disease called Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease. UCTD,’ he told us.
My husband and I had no idea what that meant except for one thing. My gut instinct told me that not knowing those letters, not immediately recognizing the name Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease, was a good thing. If UCTD was truly bad, it would have been a familiar term. A term you hear about a lot in relation to walk-a-thons and fundraisers. Multiple sclerosis. Muscular dystrophy. Even if I didn’t know the specifics of those illnesses, I knew their names. I knew they were complicated. UCTD sounded okay.”
The paragraphs above are from my personal essay, It’s Not the Final Answer. I’m pleased to share that my essay was selected for publication in Please See Me, Issue #12: Diagnosis. You can read the essay in its entirety by clicking here.
WendyKennar.com 