Ask me how I’m doing and I’ll say “fine”, not because I’m actually fine, but because “fine” is the only socially acceptable response.
If I said that I have been lying here, for three hours now, willing my body to move, that would elicit unsolicited advice and tarnish my “fine”.
I’d berate myself for breaking my promise not to moan, knowing that complaining provokes a compulsive need to fix, which just infuriates me
Because my concept of trying – which is defined by getting dressed each day – does not match trying every new therapy, drug, exercise offered by well-meaning but clueless
others, who may experience fatigue at times, but have no understanding of what is is to be exhausted after something as simple as bathing, let alone debating what I haven’t tried.
So, ask me how I’m feeling, and I’ll say “fine” and we move on to the weather, or the latest movie must-see, and I can bask in the warmth of the contact
carry the conversation into the void of the rest of my day, smile to think that I still have friends who accept my “fine” even though they know I am anything but…
Mother’s feet scream – agony of her miserable condition, underlying disease eating her. My feet, free of calluses, paddles slightly bent and fallen, carry on with forgiving kindness.
Husband’s knees are red-hot pokers shooting knife-sharp volts with every rickety step. Mine are knots in spindly trunks that bear movement graciously, allot me flexibility.
Father’s back grew weak faltering in the end, hunched, as if he’d born a cumbersome burden. My back, not without its moaning, carries me proudly erect – like the spring sapling, winter endured.
Uncle’s heart beats erratically, ceasing despite its mechanical support, his life a testimony to modern science. My heart flutters with expectancy, aches with disappointment, and soars with each new birdsong.
Sister’s tension rises, the stiffness in her neck suffocating, headaches blinding her vision. My neck, slung now like a rooster’s, puffs around my face like an old friend, allows me the comfort of perspective.
Brother’s mind has seized, lost somewhere between today and yesteryear – never certain of either. Mine, a constant churning cog, gathers information, spews ideas and bends in the face of creativity.
My eyes have seen suffering, my hands throbbed with desire to help; yet each bears their cross stoically, and so I watch with compassion and gratitude for the life I might have lived, had my own vessel not been so blessed.
One Woman's Quest 