Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Thoughts on Nutcrackers and Fibromyalgia
Physical pain. Sometimes it edges just over the rim of what seems tolerable, scattering a grim light on the ordinary world. I live daily with pain like the buzz of a refrigerator motor, a noise made almost-silence by its all-the-time presence in the background of my life. Then, the barometric pressure drops and, like a frost-bitten flower, I blacken and die. Today is one such day.
Every fork scraped on every plate is a glockenspiel; every door shut is a gong. I'm going to throw up. No, I'm not. I'm at sea, tossed this way and that, my stomach moving with the waves. The fine points of arrows have been driven into both my eye sockets and the joints that operate my jaw. From my neck to my toes, I am cast in plaster, moving only slowly, with caution—in this body that used to dance.
I take my medicine. I sit. And I do not resist. Instead, I live more and more in my thought-life, letting my body do the pain part on its own. Quietly, I watch it—the storm outside my window, the animal behind a cage. The pain knows what to do. I have fibromyalgia. But I also have children and chickens and books and a collection of ridiculous Nutcrackers, arrayed upon my shelf.
"How are you, Tara?" they ask me with concern.
"Fine," I always tell them. "I'm good enough. And how are you?"
Faith in Ambiguity by Tara Adams is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License