I ran into someone at work today that I only see once a
month or so. I caught him up on my
recent symptoms and general medical happenings.
“You seem to be dealing with it very well,” he told me. “I suppose,” I replied. I never really know what to say when people say
that to me.
I thought about our conversation on the train ride
home. I thought about how my life must
look to other people. It must look
overwhelming and scary. It might look a
little sad.
People tell me sometimes that they don’t know how I do
it. I mean, yea. Me either, some days. But really, it’s not like that. I didn’t choose this life. I just have it. If you woke up with a chronic illness, you
would do all these same things, too.
There is no choice involved. You
do what you have to in order to survive.
A lot of the time, that means ignoring all the ways in which my life is
unlike anyone else’s.
There are days when I feel the weight of my illness in every
muscle fiber, every thought, every intention.
And sometimes on those days, all I can do is take medication and sleep,
the pain and nausea and exhaustion too much to be productive.
But some days I think about these people who think that I’m
brave and think that maybe I really am. I
get up and put on a pretty dress and twist my red hair into a knot and sing
along to Rancid while I put my makeup on.
I go to work and eat even though I know it will make me puke and walk outside even
though the sunlight makes me feel like I’m wilting. I see my friends and go out and enjoy my
life. When I can finally take pain
medication and crawl into my bed under my heated blanket, I feel like I
accomplished something, for all of us.
On these days, my bravery shows in my happiness, I
suppose. It shows in the fact that even
mast cell disease cannot stop me from enjoying my life. And I never really thought about it, but that is a choice.
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