It’s Pain Awareness Month

(You can’t tell from this photo, but I was in a lot of pain. But it was a great day! My family and I had enjoyed a fun family outing – which included a couple of hours in the car as well as an hour-plus of walking. And, I got these beautiful sunflowers – my favorite flower! So there were lots of reasons to smile. But my leg h-u-r-t!)

September is Pain Awareness Month.

It’s gotten to the point where I refuse to answer a nurse when he/she asks me, “What’s your pain level like on a scale of 1-10?”. (Just so you know, I don’t ignore the nurse. I simply explain I can no longer answer that question.)

I used to really try to answer. I’d look at the range of faces and short descriptions under the illustrations and try to figure out where I fit on that scale. 

But now I realize there’s no point. My pain level can change from day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute. 

And sometimes, many times, my pain level is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter how much pain I’m in. If it’s 3:00 on a weekday, then that means I need to pick up my son from school – regardless of how I feel. It’s non-negotiable. 

I rarely let pain stop me from doing my daily activities. Because if I did, I wouldn’t do anything most days — at least lately. (The pain has been off-the-charts the last few weeks which means more doctors appointments and changes to my medications.)

But also, I wonder what long-term pain does to me — my body and my mind? I’ve been dealing with UCTD since 2010 (even though I didn’t know it was until my diagnosis in 2011). Ten years of pain has to warp your perception of discomfort. A “5” on my scale, I’m sure would be at least a “9” on my husband’s scale. (This may be a very bad generalization, but at least when it comes to my dad and my husband, they are not as pain tolerant as my mom or I.)

Here’s the other thing about pain. Everyone experiences it. In some way, shape, or form, everyone is dealing with something painful. 

When you stop and think about it, that’s a powerful reminder to pause and really try to remember to treat others with compassion and kindness and patience. 

Because you never know what someone is dealing with simply by looking at them.

In Possession of the ‘Enough Stuff’

Even if I had pursued my first dream, if I had tried to become a United States astronaut, I wouldn’t have succeeded. Because now I know the truth. Apparently I’m claustrophobic.”

“The first time I had an MRI, I was completely unprepared for it. I thought an MRI would just be a fancy X-ray. Instead, I felt as if I was being swallowed up by a massive machine that slid me inside and wouldn’t let me back out. It was loud, it vibrated, and I felt like the whole thing was a very elaborate plan to see how long it would take until I cracked and pushed the panic button. (I kept it firmly in my grip, my thumb gently hovering above the button. Just in case. And to my credit, I’ve never used it.)”

On the surface you might not think my childhood dream of becoming an astronaut and my current identity as a chronic illness patient have anything in common.

But they do.

I’m proud to share my essay, “In Possession of the Enough Stuff,” has been published in SWFP Quarterly Special Issue 26. You can click here to read the essay in its entirety.

And, fun bonus! On Sunday, August 15th, Santa Fe Writers Project hosted an incredible reading on Zoom. I participated and read a portion of my essay. The whole reading was incredible, and I feel fortunate to have been a part of it. (If you’re pressed for time, I start reading at about 50 minutes in.)

Lost and Found

I lost my teaching career. Teaching was more than my job; it was my passion. My identity. However, the pain and fatigue from my autoimmune disease (Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease) made it necessary for me to ‘retire due to a disability.’

I found my second career, as a writer. Since I was no longer teaching full-time, I could write full-time. Personal essays I submit to literary journals and anthologies. Blog posts for my personal website. Assignments as a regularly contributing writer for a popular family-oriented website, MomsLA.com.”

My personal essay, “Lost and Found,” is a series of reflections — about what I have lost as a direct cause of my autoimmune disease and what I have found as a result. It’s a way of acknowledging the ways I have changed, the ways my life has changed. 

Lost and Found,” was recently published in the Summer 2021 issue of Breath and Shadow. You can click here to read the essay in its entirety. 

Surviving and Thriving

When it comes to the most important roles in life (in my opinion – spouse and parent) no one gives you a handbook with practical, helpful tips and tricks.

And so it was when I received my autoimmune disease diagnosis. My rheumatologist gave my illness a name, and started me on medication, but he didn’t provide any advice on what it would mean for me long-term, what I should do that day, and the day after, and the day after that one.

Thankfully there are other patients out there, telling their stories and sharing their experiences. 

I recently read Ilana Jacqueline’s Surviving and Thriving With an Invisible Chronic Illness: How to Stay Sane and Live One Step Ahead of Your Symptoms.

It is the book I wish my doctor had handed me that November morning all those years ago. 

While I admit some of the advice and some of the anecdotes don’t apply to me (I’m not trying to decide if I can move out of my parents’ home, for example) I’m still glad I read it. And as you can see from the photo, I still found a number of passages to highlight and mark with sticky notes.

For example:

“Life with chronic illness is about managing expectations while keeping the hope alive enough to still make plans for the future.” (So beautifully put)

“Chronic illness isn’t something you beat or fight. It isn’t a race or a life-long quest to return to normalcy. You don’t reverse, battle, or spar with it. Chronic illness is something you outsmart.” (I haven’t figured that part out yet. I admit, most of the time I’m still trying to resist my chronic illness, still trying to prove I’m tougher and stronger than it is.)

“Acceptance isn’t defeat: It’s a declaration of self-respect under irrefutable circumstances. This is where you are and you’re going to make the best out of every moment of it.”  (I had never thought of acceptance in terms of self-respect.)

“Learning how and when to ask for help is going to be a huge asset to you in life.” (I continue to struggle with this one.)

“It is your body and your responsibility to treat it with confidence, intelligence, and above all, compassion.” (An important lesson for every human being.)

Prime Time or Off-Peak?

“The other night I sat on the couch as my husband stood behind me and brushed my hair. I told Paul I felt like I was slowly falling apart. I was becoming just like one of my Grandma’s purses.

‘What does that mean?’ Paul asked.

‘My grandma never liked to get rid of a purse. She’d tape the handles, because the rest of it still worked. It wasn’t ripped. The zipper worked. Just the handles were breaking. She’d use a taped-up purse,’ I said. 

‘That’s who I’m becoming,’ I said.

‘No you’re not,’ he said. 

But it’s how I felt just then. And it’s how I feel a lot of the time. Parts of me work just fine. Other parts, specifically my left leg, is more like the taped up handles – kind of working, kind of getting the job done.” 

The paragraphs above are from my recently published essay “Prime Time or Off-Peak?” (It was written last year so I must now let readers know my son is thirteen, and not twelve. Which means I’m forty-five, and not forty-four, as stated in the essay.)

You can click here to be re-directed to Kaleidoscope Magazine Number 83. My essay is on page 62.

There Is No Shame

Did you know July is Disability Pride Month?

I didn’t. 

Maybe it’s because I don’t feel pride when it comes to my invisible disability.

It’s more like resignation. Sometimes.

And sometimes it’s denial.

I don’t really know what it is, honestly, because having an invisible disability means I have a complicated relationship with my body. 

It’s a relationship that requires me to learn, and re-learn, what it means to be brave, to be strong, to be courageous, to ask for help, to say no.

And I have learned that just because it’s complicated and confusing, doesn’t mean it’s something I need to hide. Because the fact is, my invisible disability is a part of who I am. And it’s not going anywhere. And neither am I.

On that note, I’d like to share a link to a post I wrote last year for The Mighty. I think its message is an appropriate way to acknowledge Disability Pride Month. 

Click here to read my essay “There Is No Shame in Life With Chronic Illness.”

A Soft Strength

Fairfax High School Senior Year Photo, Class of 1994

“For years, I used my hair as a diversion.

It began with my ponytail phase. Every picture in my mom’s photo album shows me with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. The photos didn’t capture the back of my head and the way I carefully color-coordinated my ponytail holder with the day’s outfit.

When I entered my teenage years, I attempted to dress my hair with a variety of colorful clips and barrettes. I hoped to turn eyes away from the red pimples on my forehead and cheeks. 

By my senior year in high school, I had grown my brown-M&M-colored hair down to my waist in hopes of distracting from the worsening acne on my face.” 

The paragraphs above are from my most recently published essay, “A Soft Strength.” You can click here to be re-directed to HerStry and read the essay in its entirety.

Lessons Learned

“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.

Still My Hands

(One of my most favorite bulletin boards. Just one student’s handprints wouldn’t have been nearly as spectacular. But working together, every student’s handprints creates a beautiful rainbow!)

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.

The Octopus in My Life

I’m pleased to share The Mighty has published one of my personal essays, “How My Autoimmune Disease Is Like an Octopus.” 

I wrote this piece in response to one of The Mighty’s monthly writing prompts. “What’s something related to your health condition you had to learn the ‘hard way’?”

Here’s an excerpt from my essay:

“No one told me this would be all-encompassing. That having an autoimmune disease was like having an octopus in my life, tentacles stretching out and touching one area of my life after another.” 

You can click here to read the essay in its entirety.