Roller Coaster...

Being Chronically Ill is like being on a roller coaster. I used to love them. Then they became bumpy. Lurch-y. They became faster. The loops bigger, the twists dizzier. Your stomach fell and you felt sick. Things spun out of control fast. You lost the focal point. It's too much. Suddenly the ride comes to loud screeching halt that ends in a final hard jerk of your head and a moment of silence and clarity. You disembark on weak legs knowing someone is rushing in to take your place. You stumble while trying to collect yourself and downhill you go. The lines for each became longer. The wait became more tiresome. The thrill was over faster. The restraints seemed to be too tight. The walk was too far. It was no longer fun. It was no longer a thrill. I want to go over on the grass, lay on a blanket under that nice shady tree that's off limits. 

Then there comes a time to leave the park and trudge with the other faceless dreary, tired overwrought cattle that made it out of the fields. The ride back to the comfort of home is always longer, quieter and has none of the jubilation from the earlier car ride to the roller coaster. Feeling wrung out, worn, tired, disgusting and dirty, a shower is out of the question and if little ones are involved, they are put on something soft and safe, remaining in their sweaty, stinky, stained-yet-adorable clothes of the day, left in dreamland. And just when you think you cannot take one. more. step. you reach your oasis-your bed. Your sanctuary of tranquility and peace, at least for a little while. 

I so want to love roller coasters and theme parks again. It's just not going to happen. Hope springs eternal you say? No. Not anymore.

My saga with Chronic Illness was much like my roller coaster experience. Health-wise. Love-wise. Money-wise. Life-wise. I'm somewhere I never thought I would be. Every morning when my eyes open I am at the precipice of the ride, tipping forward at the top, waiting for the descent. While I wait, I try to admire to view, the beauty, the creation around me, the blessings I have, the breeze on my face and the split seconds of suspended animation. Perhaps it's an illusion but I will cling to it for in that hair of time there is no pain, no worry, no fear, no sadness, no judgement, no struggles, no stress, no hurt, no anguish. There is no one. I am not alone yet there is no one. I am, for lack of a better phrase, at peace. 

The ride of Chronic Illness begins slowly, climbing the hill of concerns, doctors visits, and tests. Worry and a little panic sets in. Then chaos sets in as your new life unfolds wreaking havoc everywhere in your life. Some parts slowly chipped away, as if a coaster car became too old and came loose from the rails, sailing off into the sunset without a sound. others, like my marriage, broke apart violently with betrayal ending not only with broken vows but the loss of a dear friend as well. That part of the track had to be removed and replaced, it was beyond repair. 

The ride itself takes you this way and that, pulling and pushing you with gravity and centripetal force, sometimes leaving you with a sense of being weighted down and strapped tightly in that chair. Other times you can be out-of-your-head loopy and dizzy, not remembering anything, flowing on the breeze aloft on the ride. The ride tries to break you. A never ending ride that keeps you guessing every moment which way it will go.

If or when you do leave the coasters and parks, you do trudge on, feeling like you are wading through waist-high honey because that's what you must do. There is no other choice. Wage the daily, weekly, lifelong battle. You learn how to cope through trial and error. You have learned how to say what to which doctor. You know that hoarding drugs is not for fun, but just in case you run out someday. You know how to make excuses and to on your "I'm normal" face. You know how many days you might be able to go with out crashing under the best possible circumstances. You know who can stand to see you in a wheelchair and who would help push you. You know how much rest you need days in advance of a big event. Sleep eludes you, side effects torment you. There is no way around any of it. We huddle together en mass, mostly online, in chat rooms, on blogs, in Twitter Groups and Face Book posts. We need interpersonal communication desperately. Only we know what the others are going through. Only we know how bad the pain is where others cannot see. Only we know the shame and humiliation we suffer by those who cannot "see" our pain. Only we know the intolerance of an invisible illness. 

I am grateful for that sliver of a moment before the crashing realization of pain weighs down on my body like steel wheels burning along a track. When I have to grasp the edge of the bed with brittle achy fingers to roll myself to the edge as if the breaks spark and rub against the hard steel rails. Finally sitting erect, I feel gravity pulling on my own dead weight keeping me from standing like a harness around my upper body. My body begins to move from stationary to the click-clacking upward climb of standing. Moving, greasing up the moving parts, about to take off. The ride of the day begins. Hopefully, I've moved to the carousel.