The Tin Man Cometh

Last October, I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA).  So basically my knees are shot.

This came on the heels of a wicked case of shingles, which came on the heels of a failed adoption in which we had an infant boy for 3 days until the birth mother changed her mind.

We joked – because gallows humor is the only way we could navigate the ups and downs of the adoption process – that her deception had literally brought a pox upon her house.   She had lied to her family about not being pregnant; lied to us about having her family’s support; and lied to herself about wanting to follow thru with an adoption plan.

Sigh.

On my more enlightened days, I am happy that we were able to serve as the means through which she could discover how much she wanted to keep her son.   But bodhisattva is just a place I visit, rather than stay,  and the experience left its mark on our entire family, including this 40 – cough-cough-nevermind-what’s-after – body.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say the RA was stress-induced.

I went into treatment thinking I could rid myself of the disease.  But after several months, we have reached a détente.  I am, in fact, quite grateful for the changes it has inspired.

I now swim 3 times a week where I am regularly lapped by the entire cast of Cocoon.  I follow a strict (ish) gluten-free, dairy-free and sugar-free diet.  And I listen very closely to my body’s early warning system.  Lord knows, she can be a real bitch when she’s ignored.  I fear one day she’ll show up in the kitchen with a half-boiled rabbit in the pot, then I realize that I’m talking about myself and that scenario would be myself seeing myself, which is all kinds of crazy – especially since it involves me in a kitchen, which is a room I only frequent on my way to the back door.

(Fortunately, Lori cooks.)

As I told a good friend a few weeks ago, everyone has their baggage.  You can either struggle with the load or drag it gracefully beside you.

I’m going for the dignified limp.

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