The Difference Between Abuse And Care

Photo by Sydney Sims on Unsplash

I had a very interesting discovery the other day.

I had a friend make a joke on one of my posts that suggested I might have a diagnosis other than fibromyalgia. She’s suggested this particular diagnosis ad nauseam in the past. I didn’t take it well. I was upset and antsy and, after some prompting from another friend, I politely set a boundary of can we please not with this topic, and how it makes me feel.

And she apologised. She apologised, explained she had been trying to make a joke about how she could empathise with my experiences because she has the other diagnosis, and the injury I had experienced is one she could imagine herself doing. Then she apologised for missing the mark with the joke. And none of it was ‘I’m sorry you feel that way’ or anything like that, it was a true and genuine apology, taking responsibility for what she said and how that made me feel.

It was freeing in a way I cannot put into words. Suddenly I wasn’t offended by the joke, and I could feel her care and consideration for me. It increased my love and respect for her a thousandfold.

This is totally different to the friend I lost. During my diagnosis process for both fibromyalgia and trigeminal neuralgia, when the doctor and I were both pretty sure what I had but were doing the formalities, she would send me messages with all sorts of different things I could have. Constantly. I rarely mentioned any of my symptoms past ‘ow’. She never once asked about them. And she was saying ‘oh what about this? and this? you could have this!’ I repeatedly told her we were pretty confident it was fibromyalgia (or trigeminal neuralgia) and it felt like she was dismissing my knowledge and my doctor’s knowledge of the situation.

She never apologised. She would only say ‘I just don’t want you to have x because it’s chronic and it’s awful’. That is not a place of care. That is a place of control. Which pretty much summed up our whole relationship.

Because of my long history of being abused (right from infancy through to this latest ‘friend’), I have difficulty with identifying when people come from a place of care and love. It’s often only once I begin to establish a boundary, and they accept it and apologise for stepping on it that I can tell the difference.

It has started healing a little part of me that was very raw.

I’m Not Okay

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

I’m not okay today.

I did too much. Way too much, and now I’m paying for it with full body aches.

When I’m this fatigued – and it is a bone deep dragging fatigue that pulls every bit of energy from your muscles and leaves you in agony – my good mood inevitably slides away to a numbness I associate with my depression.

I will shortly haul myself off the couch and put on my fluffy cosy socks. Then I’ll turn the heatpump on and cuddle up on the couch and read terrible fanfiction until the claws of fatigue retract from my muscles. It is important to coddle yourself on bad days.

I’m not okay, but I know that I will be.

I Broke My Triangular Fibrocartilage Complex

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Three weeks ago I broke the triangular fibrocartilage complex in my right wrist. This is, unfortunately, my dominant hand.

The triangular fibrocartilage complex as a series of cartilage, evidenced by the name, and also ligaments. It’s on the little finger side of the wrist and it deals with the interaction between your ulna and the bones in your wrist. It plays a crucial role in allowing you to turn your wrist, because the cartilage provides a smooth surface for the bones to interact over. It also prevents your bones from clunking together.

So it’s kind of integral to the use of your right arm. Which means in the middle of the year of all my practical work I do not have use of my right arm. And I will not have use of my arm for quite some time.

I don’t see an orthopaedic surgeon until September. After that, I need an MRI for them to identify where the damage is and how bad it is, and then I’ll be booked in for surgery. Damage to the cartilage between the ulna and the wrist bones must be surgically repaired. It does not go away with rest. So after surgery I will be in a cast for 7 weeks, and then I have physiotherapy for 6 to 8 weeks.

So in reality, it’s looking like I won’t have use of my right arm for the rest of the year. This also means I can’t actually type – I’m using Google dictation to write this, and I’m adding in the punctuation manually. It’s an interesting experience because I’m used to my fingers doing the thinking, instead of my mouth. I’m not used to speaking my thoughts out loud, and I’m certainly not used to writing this out loud, some of my most private and personal thoughts, available for the world to read but not for those in my life. In a sense it’s easier this way.

I’m having to relearn a lot of things now, using my left hand. I’ve never been even vaguely ambidextrous, and so using my left-hand for things is somewhat complicated. I have spent the last week sulking and generally feeling very sorry for myself over this. It’s hard not to when the hits just keep coming and they don’t stop coming. I don’t feel like I’ve had a break. I feel like every year there is something new, some new way of impact in my life and my ability to do things. It sucks, and I have to let myself feel that.

Now, though, I am back on my feet, more or less. I’m sorting out an MRI in advance of the orthopaedic surgeon’s appointment, I have sorted out physiotherapy already, and I’m going to interview a personal trainer to help me make sure I don’t lose muscle mass. And to improve my non-existent muscle mass. Ah the joys of doing nothing for 2 years. And being on Tegretol, which I’m now off (yay), but I still haven’t lost any of the weight I got while I was on Tegretol (not so yay).

It’s unpleasant, the damage to the joint. Not only is it painful to turn my wrist, but there is a distinct clicking which is always excruciatingly painful when it happens. I also can’t use my right hand to push off objects because that puts pressure on that joint, and I can only very carefully lift things. I can’t turn my key in my car. I can’t crochet. I can’t type, I struggle to use a mouse, and that’s all just pants.

So over the next few weeks I’m going to be figuring out what on earth I can do, because I will go insane if I don’t have anything to do for the rest of the year.

Another Dog … Another Failure

Photo by Isabela Kronemberger on Unsplash

A couple of months ago I got a dog to train up to be my mobility helper.

He was terrified of men. So he was rehomed, and now lives the life of luxury, sleeping on beds and being spoiled. I had to seek outside confirmation that I couldn’t have made it work with him, because he was such a sweet dog, and he was the first one I had tried. But, ultimately, I cannot work with a dog who is terrified of men.

Last week I got another dog, also to train up to be my mobility helper. This time I took it slow. I went out and met him, I took my friend with me to assess his temperament, and then went home and had a long talk about him. I picked him up, and he was anxious, but he never put a foot wrong. He didn’t put a foot wrong the entire week I had him. He was sweet, lovely, willing, and just adapted to every situation thrown at him.

But he had some health quirks that could have been indicative of serious problems, and he smeared saliva everywhere. My amazing human isn’t able to cope with dog saliva, so we agreed he would not be joining us permanently.

I know it’s a process, I know the right dog is one-in-a-million, but I am feeling disheartened by this. It’s hard work to meet the dog, check them over, take them on for a bit, and then figure out how to explain to the old owner why their beautiful, lovely, fantastic, and genuinely amazing dog failed, because that’s what it feels like to them. The last owner didn’t understand, and was very upset by it, and I think that, more than anything, has led to me feeling so bad this time around.

I haven’t given up finding the right dog. Or rather, I have flights of fancy that I don’t need the extra help, that I’ll be able to figure out a way around all of this so I don’t need a dog, and life will continue on as it always has. But they are brief, and generally beaten over the head with a mallet with my leg doesn’t want to hold my weight, or when I have a dizzy spell.

But for now I am going to sit back and relax and rest up. The stress of the last few weeks is finally catching up with me.

Sometimes You Just Have To Sleep (The Day Away)

Photo by Jon Butterworth on Unsplash

One delightful part of fibromyalgia is having unrestful sleep. For me, that means having vivid nightmarish dreams. Last night involved floating cows, deer crates, and then people infected with rage virus trying to kill each other (including me). It wasn’t a particularly fun night, and as a result, I woke up feeling a little bit like death warmed up.

Had breakfast and coffee, sat around for a bit … still death warmed up. Had second breakfast of cinnamon french toast, courtesy of my Amazing Human, and more coffee, but the excessive fatigue persisted.

Giving in, I curled myself up on the couch and lay down. I was out like a light.

I say ‘sleep’ rather than ‘nap’ because I’m typically out for about 4 hours, and I usually wake up feeling more rested than I do after a ‘good night’s sleep’. Today was no different.

Despite needing to do more cleaning, I slept solidly from midday until 4pm and I woke up feeling so much better. I wouldn’t have achieved a single thing by remaining conscious, but after that nap, I managed to finish off the bathroom and toilet and the cat pooping room / laundry.

With fibromyalgia, or with any other chronic illness, if you’re knackered … you need to sleep. Even if it means sleeping half the day away!