The trouble with chronic illness is you never know from one hour to the next whether it will hammer you. Should I start a blog and try to sell stuff on it for an income? Do people really want to read about misery? Is there any experience, strength and hope within our silly saga of chronic coping?
Yesterday, we decided to do a little easy ride. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Starting slow really helps my feet — I did a normal pace. Noticing Rick was no where near me, I figured he was just taking photos or just giving me some space. He’s usually way the heck out in front, and I can’t keep up. I stopped several times and he was no where to be seen. I asked a guy riding past if he’d seen him. The man said there was a guy sitting on a bench taking a break. I thought, hmm, weird. Well, Rick will surely call me if he’s in trouble. No call, no text, no problem, right?
Turns out the illness had hit again.
He muscled through a really rough ride. I had no idea. It was the kind of pain that would send a normal person off to the urgent care or hospital. He could easily have called me and said he couldn’t do it and needed me to turn around.
At any point last night, your average person would have headed off to the hospital. Be we don’t because we don’t get any help, nor any answers.
It happens so often that I don’t know when it’s bad or killer bad or just uncomfortable. The doctors shrug their shoulders, have no remedy, no solution, no cause and no cure. Nor do the naturalists, the foodies, acupuncturists, the whosis and the whatsis…..
We don’t like going on and on and on about Haggis — the destroyer of life. We are both generous, active, interested, loving, and happy people. We used to go all out to help friends and family. We were happy to drop whatever we were doing to help a friend in need. I know it seems self absorbed to always be complaining about days destroyed by Haggis or my flippin foot.
I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know who to call. I’m completely out of ideas. I only know that one very strong man is struggling and I can’t help him. The harder I try, the more I research, the more I suggest going to a different doctor, trying a different dietary approach — it just makes him miserable.
And every time I reach what I think is my wit’s end, the end of my rope, the last bit of hope drained out of me, my guy rallies once again.
Today, I hope that’s the case. It’s 9 AM. Last night he was in pain. This morning, I type and wonder if he is just sleeping after a hard night. I am always worried that he didn’t make it through the night.
Praying for a cure.