Here's the thing about time: I know that, according to the universe, it is a constant and consistent thing. Seconds go by, making minutes, which go by making hours, which make days, which make weeks, etc. And these units of time are all uniform, each one the same as every other. But it doesn't seem that way to most of us. I'm sure we've all had the experience of a minute that felt like an hour and an hour that passed in what felt like a minute. I mean, sometimes I look at my son, almost 16 now, and I remember so vividly holding that tiny newborn baby. It seems like it was yesterday and sometimes my heart aches for how quickly those years have gone.
For those of us with chronic pain, time can seem even more inconsistent than usual. Time can slow to almost nothing when you're waiting for a pain pill to take effect or you're waiting for it to be time for the next one. At the same time, it can fly by and you've lost another week before you quite know it. Another week where you didn't really get a chance to accomplish anything except make it through from one day to the next. Sometimes, it seems like that's really all there is.
I've felt somewhat swamped by feelings and emotions lately. Naturally, that's had a somewhat detrimental effect on my pain levels, leading to multiple mini-flares. Not all of those feelings and emotions have been bad. My sister completed her last round of chemo for ovarian cancer and was proclaimed to officially be a cancer survivor and in complete remission. That was definitely news of the happy variety. It still brought me to tears but they were tears of sheer joy.
Other things have not quite been as happy. My mother was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's after months of testing and more testing and struggling. I wonder if there will ever come a time when thinking about this does not make it feel like a hand is squeezing my heart and making it hurt. I also don't know whether to blame these emotions for the tightness that bands my chest and back and makes it seem like I can't breathe some times. (Never fear, I have, indeed, discussed this with the doctor and it does not seem heart or lung related.) Just thinking about this diagnosis can make me feel like I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I worry about whether my mother will even recognize me the next time I get to see her. Definitely emotion worthy.
This also tends to be a difficult time of year, anyway. June 17 marked the 10 year anniversary of the death of my father. Another way that time fools us. How can it possible be 10 years already that he's been gone? Shouldn't I miss him less after this many years? Sometimes he still feels very near. The other day, I was driving home with my son. He'd spent the day with two classmates, constructing a trebuchet for the Honors Physics class they are taking in summer school. We were taking it home with us until it was time to take it to school for the assignment. Consequently, my car smelled like fresh cut lumber and sawdust and I became completely swamped with emotion and drove home in tears.
You see, my dad was a carpenter and that scent brought him instantly to mind. I could practically see him, standing behind a saw horse, cigarette between his lips, carpenter's pencil tucked behind his ear, getting ready to cut a piece of lumber in our garage. In those memories, he is bigger than life, like he was before cancer shrunk him. It is one of my big regrets that neither my husband or son ever knew my father before cancer. Big or small, though, he was always my daddy and he always will be. I doubt another ten years will dim the pain of hearing my brother say the words "Dad died." Heck, just typing them made my eyes leak and my breathing stop for a moment.
I know how incredibly lucky I have been to have been blessed with such love and support in my life. You can't hurt like this unless love like that has been a part of your life. And I still have that love. He might be gone but I still have my father's love inside of me. It's part of what makes me who I am. And I'm not alone. If anything, my sister's experience with cancer has brought the three of us sisters even closer. At least, I feel very close to them right now and know that they would drop everything and be here for me in an instant if I needed them. So would my brother. I am lucky to be surrounded by that kind of closeness and love, even if there are many miles physically between us now.
I am also exceedingly blessed to have a husband who supports and puts up with me. I'm sure that isn't easy as I've been an emotional trainwreck lately. He never complains about what I can't do because of the fibro and never makes me feel bad about not being able to do the things I used to. And that goes doubly for our son. I often feel like I'm letting him down and I know he doesn't really understand why sometimes I ask him not to hug me so tightly or why I can be crying for no apparent reason (such as driving home with a trebuchet in the car). But he constantly tells me how much he loves me and what a great mom he thinks I am. And when I'm feeling like a failure because I missed a drumline competition by sitting in the car at the venue because I couldn't take the sound and the crowd and I hurt too badly to sit in the bleachers, that goes a long way.
Fibromyalgia is an isolating condition. Unless someone has suffered from a chronic pain condition, they can't really understand what it's like. We spend a lot of time in our head, just trying to make it through from one minute to the next. Not everyone is as lucky as I am to have family who loves and supports them on this journey to the new normal of our lives. Never doubt for an instant that we hate it and, no matter what our lives were like before, we'd give most anything to have those lives back. Except my family. I would not trade even being forever pain free for them. My wish is that everyone have at least one person in their life whom they feel that way about.
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