Meet Fibro

I mentioned in an earlier post on the blog that I have fibromyalgia. For many family and friends, this was the first they had probably heard that news. This sparked a concerned call from one of my great aunts and two thoughts for me. First, “awesome, someone far away read what I wrote!” followed by, “Oops.”

Yes, I do have fibromyalgia. I don’t mention it much because on most days, and certainly in the grand scheme of things, it’s not much more than a nuisance. It’s a chronic pain syndrome that is just that. A pain. On most days I like to think I have it whipped into submission. When the weather’s steady and I’m behaving myself and in control of my schedule, fibro cries uncle.

It’s taught me to prioritize more than anything else. My energy is limited. I need at least seven hours of sleep and I’ve got to manage to squeeze in exercise or the pain gets worse. Every day I take my two prescription meds and fist full of supplements plus drink lots of water. I’ve learned to say no but still probably not as frequently as I should. And I’ve learned to live with a long to-do list that always remains undone.

Oh, and my medication doesn’t play well with alcohol. So more than anything fibromyalgia just makes me a bore with a messy house.

I can tell you that when the weather’s bad, I’m short on sleep, stuck sitting for far too long in one spot or just doing way too much, I hurt. And when I hurt, I think about the greats that have gone before me.

My grandma had rheumatoid arthritis. Her knuckles were the size of quarters and her fingers were at a 45 degree angle. Despite that I don’t recall that she ever complained. She did, however, manage to do the most beautiful cross stitch which still amazes us.

My mom was only 40 years old when Parkinson’s disease barged into her life. That’s a particularly cruel one that takes you from one extreme to another. Just take a look at Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali and you see it. Shaking, uncontrollable movements to paralysis. I remember her feet cramping and her toes curling so much that she would have to crawl through the house some mornings. She couldn’t control her face for a smile so she hated having her picture taken. It hurts my heart that I have so few photos to keep me company now that she is gone.

There are times I start to feel sorry for myself, which is just silly. At those moments I hold my aching hands out in front of me. They are straight. They move only when I want them to and only in the direction I intend. Thank you, Lord.