While coffee brewed in Sam and Courtney's Keurig, I searched for my missing shoe. Frantic, I found it in my backpack where I'd placed it the night before, hoping to make things easier in the morning.
You know the feeling.
Both feet covered, I gulped down the warm liquid, headed out to my van, and then drove only twenty minutes to my early morning follow-up podiatry appointment.
As I rode my knee-scooter into the building 15 minutes ahead of schedule, I celebrated my success. By staying with my son and his wife, the commute took less than half the time.
Perched on an exam table, I listened as my doctor explained, "I'm glad we did the MRI. But because you've had so much surgery in your ankle, it's hard to tell for sure if the tendon is torn. We see something on the scan, but it could be post-surgery changes, instead of a tear."
I appreciated his candor. But since I was the one who felt something pop on the side of my left foot right before it turned inward, leaving me pigeon-toed again, I didn't question the tear.
Regardless, a second doc went on, "If we go in again right now, we might do more harm than good. Another surgery could result in more scar tissue that could cause lasting damage."
Sobered, I accepted my fate. Another month of no-weight bearing.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I called my dad to check in. His words helped, "Susan, you handle your limits well most of the time. But you wouldn't be human if they didn't get you down from time to time too."
From there I drove to the Catholic church where I spend my Thursday mornings rehearsing choir music with some of their members. Before I left, I stopped in the bathroom where an aging congregant and I met.
As she exited the handicap stall I needed, we were forced into awkward conversation. Leaning heavy on a walker, she asked why I needed the scooter. I explained the recent surgeries and subsequent fall. In response, she looked me straight in the eye with resolute calm and said, "We need to take care of ourselves."
It wasn't a mere suggestion.
"You need to be selfish even," she commanded. "Stop thinking of everyone else."
Uncomfortable with the verbiage, yet quieted by the order, I soaked in her admonition. She gave me no choice. Refusing to budge, she peered into my eyes until I agreed.
Not used to a stare down with a senior in the women's bathroom, I tried on her words.
Is this you, God? Do I need to think of me first?
Just writing those words makes me shiver. We live in such a narcissistic world that I cringe at the thought.
But I'm not normal. I live with a rare disease. Not only did I fall in the shower three weeks ago, but I fell over my scooter in my living room just this week.
Is it coincidence, an attack from the dark side, or am I getting worse? Honestly, I don't know.
Sitting still is easier than it was two weeks ago. Having mentally adjusted to the slower pace, my expectations align with reality.
But at times, the fact that I'm not like everyone else, that my body demands calm, rest, and simplicity, and that I can't keep up makes me tremendously sad.
In those moments, I fight for balance on the emotional see-saw, teetering between hope and despair. And I'm not the only one.
Hidden behind their limits, a host of chronically ill people fight rare diseases every day. So even though it's Valentine's week and all thoughts are shaded red and pink, will you take a minute and participate in a fund raiser honoring Rare Disease Day, February 28th?
The Foundation for Mitochondrial Medicine funds research for the treatment and cure of mitochondrial diseases, which in turn could offer the same for Alzheimer's, Muscular Dystrophy, Autism, and Parkinson's.
They're simply asking for a $28 donation in honor of Feb 28th, which seems reasonable to me.
It's easy to do. Just click on the link below.
Even though I've lived with a chronic disease for over ten years, I often rehearse this phrase over and over till sleep comes:
"By your stripes we are healed... By your stripes we are healed... By your stripes we are healed..." (Isaiah 53:5 NIV).
Hope keeps my spirit alive while I navigate confining boundaries.
Hope in Christ. Hope in eternity. And hope for a cure.
And if we all give just a little, that cure may one day be a reality.
All photos courtesy of pixabay.com
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