I know I haven't met all of them, but here are just a few.
Abby, age twenty and a college sophomore has juvenile RA and many of its accompanying problems including vision impairment. She is very wise about some things. It was she who had the courage to yell at me when I was whining about needing my handicapped placard. "Do you think you are the only one? Nobody wants this, but it is what it is. Grow up and get it. It will make your life easier." Abby was my student, but she taught me nonetheless.
Sue, age fifty-one, went into remission when she had her last pregnancy, but her daughter is on the way to middle school and the symptoms are back. She looks at me with fear when I see her in the hall. "How are you today? Why are you limping?" She remembers what the pain was like and doesn't want to be there again.
Donna, age fifty-seven, was diagnosed seventeen years ago. I am the one who looks at her with fear. Her disease has progressed twelve years farther than mine. Her feet hurt her. Her shoulders are stooped. Her fingers have almost completed their outward drift. Yet, she is out there. Working. She won't quit.
Bev, age unknown. Sixty something, I would guess. She is a greeter at my church, and her RA is also in remission. She knows, though. She never reached to shake my hand because she knew how it could hurt. And she watches me because she knows that whatever happens to me could happen to her. This disease may go into remission for a blessed few, but it doesn't seem to go away.
Betty Jean. She is seventy, I would guess. Her disease progressed rapidly, and she now uses a walker. She is at church every Sunday, and she has a smile on her face. I know she hurts. I look for her, and I worry if I don't see her.
And finally me, age fifty. I did not realize that my disease had a face until my last visit to the rheumatologist. He looked me over and talked about the pattern of my disease. My disease. I own it now. It is a part of me. A sobering thought.
Nevertheless, as I watch the other faces of this disease, I know that they, like me, have changed for the better in some ways because of it. Why? Have we slowed down because our bodies have? Are we better able to listen? I hope so. Are we more sympatheitic to the suffering of others? At least for me, I have had to face the fact that I am vulnerable. That my future may not be as easy as I have hoped. And knowing that, I have persevered, using the faces of RA that I know as inspiration.
Abby, age twenty and a college sophomore has juvenile RA and many of its accompanying problems including vision impairment. She is very wise about some things. It was she who had the courage to yell at me when I was whining about needing my handicapped placard. "Do you think you are the only one? Nobody wants this, but it is what it is. Grow up and get it. It will make your life easier." Abby was my student, but she taught me nonetheless.
Sue, age fifty-one, went into remission when she had her last pregnancy, but her daughter is on the way to middle school and the symptoms are back. She looks at me with fear when I see her in the hall. "How are you today? Why are you limping?" She remembers what the pain was like and doesn't want to be there again.
Donna, age fifty-seven, was diagnosed seventeen years ago. I am the one who looks at her with fear. Her disease has progressed twelve years farther than mine. Her feet hurt her. Her shoulders are stooped. Her fingers have almost completed their outward drift. Yet, she is out there. Working. She won't quit.
Bev, age unknown. Sixty something, I would guess. She is a greeter at my church, and her RA is also in remission. She knows, though. She never reached to shake my hand because she knew how it could hurt. And she watches me because she knows that whatever happens to me could happen to her. This disease may go into remission for a blessed few, but it doesn't seem to go away.
Betty Jean. She is seventy, I would guess. Her disease progressed rapidly, and she now uses a walker. She is at church every Sunday, and she has a smile on her face. I know she hurts. I look for her, and I worry if I don't see her.
And finally me, age fifty. I did not realize that my disease had a face until my last visit to the rheumatologist. He looked me over and talked about the pattern of my disease. My disease. I own it now. It is a part of me. A sobering thought.
Nevertheless, as I watch the other faces of this disease, I know that they, like me, have changed for the better in some ways because of it. Why? Have we slowed down because our bodies have? Are we better able to listen? I hope so. Are we more sympatheitic to the suffering of others? At least for me, I have had to face the fact that I am vulnerable. That my future may not be as easy as I have hoped. And knowing that, I have persevered, using the faces of RA that I know as inspiration.
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1 Comments:
Bodies fail. Mothers (and Grandmothers) live forever.
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