As much as I would like to think that I am prepared for every downturn that living with rheumatoid arthritis might have in store for me, the truth is: I’m not. And even though I knew that the winter conditions of the last two days were having a profound effect on my decreased mobility and increased pain levels, I still wasn’t prepared for the sudden tailspin (physical and emotional) that I entered into right around midday yesterday.
(Yes, we are moving towards summer down here in the southern hemisphere…but it’s also the start of the annual rainy season up here on top of the Andes Mountains, so when you combine wet and cold conditions with the extremely high altitude at which I live, summer ends up becoming, well, just another winter!)
One minute I thought I was just fine; the next minute I had no clue what was going on. I laid there, wondering to myself: what exactly is a person supposed to “grab on” to, when it feels like there is nothing to grab on to. Even though a more objective response to that question would show that there is indeed a lot to grab on to, the fact that my body just went from moving ‘normally’ to not being able to move at all–all in a matter of just a few short minutes–is enough (I hope) to explain why I might not necessarily be using the most logical thinking (to say the least) during such a crisis moment.
Less than a week ago, I had already started my bi-annual psych out–the mental pep-rally that I go through at the start of each (actual) winter and (summer) winter, when I start telling myself that even though I am in store for quite a ride during the next few months, everything will will be okay–all I have to do is hold on tight. Really tight!
But then my freefall started, and it felt like there was nothing to hold on to. I couldn’t even muster the strength to respond to my husband’s questions of concern: what did I need? We both knew that I was in for a big one, and that the only answer was for me to ride through it, best I could. It is during such moments, I think, when I realize that even the person sitting on the bed next to me can’t really do anything to make me feel better, when things become *really* scary. It’s like you know you have help, but you also know that you’re on your own.
As I experienced an agony unlike anything I had ever felt before (my entire spinal column was, for the first time ever, completely inflamed…and even though I was in a position that was not helping my back pain, I was not able to move into a different position) I started to tell myself that if there was nothing to grab on to, all I had to do was float…even if I was floating in some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced.
Better yet, I told myself, why not fly? I’ve never shared as much, but whenever I lose complete use of my body and limbs, when I am unable to even change the music that is being piped into my earphones, I often start to fly, up in my head. I visualize myself floating through the clouds with a huge smile on my face, and I feel great, even though a little corner of my mind still knows that at the exact moment, my body is indeed experiencing the unimaginable.
Tears started to flow, as I remembered that just five days ago, I flew for real. When I floated through the sky while hanging from a paraglider this past Friday, I remember telling myself: next time you are unable to move your body, this is the place, this is the memory, that you need to come back to.
And just like that, everything started to make sense. I knew what was going on. I knew I was going to be okay. I continued to fly in my head for a little longer than I might have wished, but eventually, I came in for a safe landing.
(Thanks to everyone who supported me when I reached out for help yesterday–you all know who you are!)
Stay tuned…for the next adventure of Rheumatoid Arthritis Guy!
