Gentle Reader,
You are superheroes. You don’t know it. You don’t feel it. But you are.
You struggle to open your eyes. You are bound to beds, to couches, to pill and jnjection schedules. You’ve lost your hair. Lost your breasts. Lost the ability to go where you want, when you want, to do what you want.
You’re bowled over by pain. Blinded by headaches. Your joints creak and your bones ache. You try so hard to be patient when loved ones throw the latest miracle cure at you. They care. They want you feel better. But really you just want them to shut up. Just be quiet.
You mourn the life you’ve lost. The hours that fade away. The kids you can’t play with because the beast pins you to the floor. The husband you can’t hug because it hurts too much. The job you had to leave. The dream you had to release.
You cry. Silent, enraged tears.
Then you take a breath. You ask God for faith. For hope. For love. For something, anything, in this day that reminds you that all is not lost. And it comes. A tiny thing. A thing insignificant to others. But you know. You know that God has heard and is with you in that valley, in that pain.
And you determine, for the millionth time, to make the most of what you’ve got. To encourage others. To pray. To read to those kids. To smile genuinely at that husband. To take on new jobs, in the shadows, cloaked in hidden glory. To dream new dreams.
Ladies of the chronic squad, I salute thee.
For all entries in the 31 Days for the Ladies series, go here.