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.
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.