Hi, My Name is Fibro...Fibromyalgia

The sun’s rays blare blindingly through her bedroom window. She twists and turns, trying to find a more comfortable spot where the pain of knowing me is non-existant. I’m cruel. I derive pleasure in her suffering.

I laugh as she twists and turns, scrambling across the bed in search of comfort, untying knotted blankets from the previous nights tousle, and wanting to scream from lack of sleep. Last night, I tortured her with one of my famous Pain Cocktails. I sat back and sipped on delight while she succumbed to a mixture of pain pills, muscle relaxers, and various other medications. Together, the near lethal combination should have guaranteed a good night’s sleep, but like all the nights before, it failed in its promise.

From a sun soaked room, I delight in her painful, groggy, hung-over body’s last attempt at sleep. Desperation fills her face as she searches for the slightest reason to get out of bed. As soon as she thinks of one, I pounce.
I attack her lower back with a spasm of monumental proportion, nothing small and insignificant for me.  When she turns on her side, in an attempt to relieve the unbearable pain, an arm that is nearly frozen in place by years of my dominance, goes beyond its boundaries and unleashes screams of sheer agony. She nearly utters a profanity before recanting. Hopeful, that one day she may be the recipient of a bonafide healing if only she can maintain her faith.

Painfully she turns over, shielding her eyes from that once precious time of morning when birds were welcomed, and coffee tasted so much better on the Veranda. She slips her legs over the edge of the bed and forces her feet to the floor. I take the opportunity to strike again, plaguing her with stiffness, swollen feet, anxiety, and aggravation. I push her buttons. She has all eighteen pressure points, plus a few more along her ribcage.
I stand curiously by as she decides whether to make coffee, or let the shower beat on her until she can move. She decides on the shower, climbing over the side, running hot water over her body until nothing but cold springs from the nozzle. A larger hot water heater springs to mind.

As she climbs out of the shower, holding firm to the handrail, I send a cramp to her knee with the intention of watching her land on her face. She hangs on, refusing to fall, afraid of lying there for days, without hope of rescue. Just as well. The scream that rang out, as her bad arm overreached, was good enough for me. Nevertheless, I will have left my mark. A large bruise is forming on her left leg.
Coffee is too easy, but I let it go. It’s when she sits down in the soft recliner to read the paper, and make her wish list of activities for the day, that I find irresistible to watch. She thinks about what she wants to accomplish and writes them all down. At the end of the day, I rejoice as she marks through the ones she never completed.

Her grandson has a ball game tonight. At seven years old, he can’t understand why she has trouble sitting on the hard metal bleachers.  His other Granny has no problem with them, and she is twice as old. She cries.
At forty-eight, she expected her life to be carefree and limitless. A young mother by choice, she always intended on enjoying the events and special times with her grandchildren, boastful and proud of her ability to keep up. Now, she mostly watches as they have fun without her, knowing that she is a drag at such a young age. Bitterness threatens to consume her.
The phone rings and she answers. Conversations are hilarious. She can’t complete one. It is like watching someone in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She has to give clues as to what she is talking about because for the life of her, she can’t remember that word—that name—that book—that color! She is exasperated, and ends the conversation with an imagined doctor’s appointment.  Shucks, just when I was about to bust-a-gut.

Against my wishes, she has made adjustments. Things like taking her own padded chair to the ballgames, an umbrella instead of a cane, so she doesn’t embarrass anyone, especially herself.
Fate may be cruel, but I can top it. She kisses her husband good-bye on Sunday evening and doesn’t see him again for a week or two. Since she had to quit work and file the dreaded “Disability Papers,” he has been sole breadwinner. Where there were two large incomes, now, there is only one. She misses him. He misses her. Guilt floods her empty moments, the moments she piles the bills in a heap and chooses at random which ones to pay, and which ones to let slide. Afterwards, I snigger as she decides which medications she can live without so her husband can eat while on the road. His return is a real treat for me. He tries to touch her and she says, “Not there.” When he rubs her arm, she pulls away because the sensation makes her skin hurt. She knows he will leave her. Why wouldn’t he? Still, he vows undying love, kisses her gently, and fixes her dinner.

Although I have stolen pleasure from her life, she ignores me. While I have given her pain, she pushes through most of it. Even though I have deprived her of youth, she maintains, “I feel like a school girl.” She and I know better; well at least I do. She can kid herself all she wants. I will get her in the end. There is no cure for me. My name is Fibromyalgia.