knowing radical self care :: reluctantly listening

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole  

 // 

The pain shoots down my left leg, straight through my kneecap.

Up my rib cage. Down through my fingers. I open my hand and close it, quickly. Over and over again. No one ever notices.

Two years ago, we made an out of town appointment with a pulmonary specialist assuming I’d inherited the rare genetic condition that runs in my family, after an evening spent in the Emergency Room, only to be dismissed with a clean bill of pulmonary health.

It’s happened enough now, though. Now we know. Nerves. Not lungs.

And when my legs go hollow, as if the sinew is melting and draining right out of my heels, I start to beg.

“No, no, no…please no…”

But, I’m no longer a stranger to this disease. I know it can’t be bargained or begged away. Although it’s unlikely I’ll give up trying either.

I knew this would be one of the hardest things to overlap with motherhood. I wondered how the days would go, home alone with my son and absolutely no strength left in my legs, pain throbbing inside my skull begging to get out.

These are the days I have to make choices I hate. Choices that leave my family, friends, obligations and commitments out to dry. While I soak in a hot bath.

On the outside, it all looks just fine. Hair curled. Blush and mascara as always. Sometimes, I wish it were more obvious so I wouldn’t feel like I have to do the convincing on the outside, of the wreck on the inside. The truth is, I always wonder if my friends who know about this part of my life really believe me when I say, “I just can’t today” or if they think it’s an excuse. I’ll always wonder that.

And not because of them. But because in my brokenness, I’d be skeptical.

The guilt swarms all around as I crawl under covers desperate for even more sleep. My tired-from-the-late-shift husband fills another baby bottle with formula. He always asks if he can bring me anything. I’ll say no thank you, and bury my head in the pillow to absorb frustrated tears.

This is where I was the morning I begged him to take an hour out of studying his training material, so I could escape to church alone. My bones ached for a dark corner in our cozy new east side church, after fourteen straight days of over-doing it and giving more than I felt I could. Honestly, I just wanted to sit still, in the same place for a while. He really didn’t have an hour to give me, but he did.

I went to church.

Singing. Yes.

People who don’t press. Thank you.

Gentle words of truth. Amen.

Communion. Yes.

It was what I needed. I was so so so tired. Everything hurt.

But, I had this one thing I needed.

Then, my husband called.

Our living room was filling with water. I needed to get home.

Immediately: Guilt. Why did I leave?

I walked in to the scene of every towel we own laying on our floors, furniture strewn and my husband in the rocking chair feeding our son, sweat dripping from his face.

This began another five days of what felt like really organized chaos. We went to work, we took care of our boy, and we got bad news. This cycle repeated as water extractors brought giant fans, so loud I couldn’t hear myself think, into my home and covered my walls and doorways in thick plastic. On Monday I came home from work to concrete, drywall, giant loud fans, plastic and the bad news of the day- tomorrow, they jack hammer.

And that’s when I decided we were going to a hotel. Guilt ensued again. We had some running water, a functional bedroom and functional bathroom. And, well, people are starving in Africa.

But I didn’t have the energy for normal life. Certainly not this. My head. My joints. The constant noise. I felt myself begin to crack. This was too much turbulence. I was losing my footing. 

I reluctantly asked our insurance company if they thought it was reasonable to get a hotel at least until there wasn’t a hole in the middle of our house. The five giant fans, and creeping haunted house plastic, I was tolerating. But, a jackhammer? No.

So I started packing.

Formula.

Baby food.

Big people food.

Clothes.

Pack’n play.

Diapers, diapers and diapers.

I packed for the trip I longed for rather than the one night in an extended stay down the street; a week’s worth of clothes. Beer. Bathing suits. I even considered taking my passport. You know, just in case.

I really hoped I’d open my eyes the next day and find our family on a sandy beach in Mexico. But, unfortunately Disney doesn’t run my life.

Unfortunately.

The next morning, I strapped my little dude to my chest and began loading our bags and food.

Dig deep, Erin. Dig deep. I whispered with every few steps, loaded down with bags.

“What’d the insurance company say about this asbestos on the concrete?”

I stopped and stared, dumbfounded as the plumber pointed his boot towards the hallway.

My husband and I just looked at each other, knowing neither of us had the emotional or physical capacity to acknowledge what he’d just said to us. We said it was news to us, and headed to the hotel.

Once we checked in and unloaded, my husband left for a mandatory test at his new job. And then it was just my little guy and me. In a hotel room. With my pretend vacation bags and a tub of baby food.

I found the bathroom, shut the door and cried. The cool hard tile was not soothing the pain shooting from my hip down through my kneecap.  I knew the tears were going to aggravate a headache. But, I didn’t care. I needed that. I needed that space.

People were still starving in Africa. And this wasn’t a catastrophe. Neither fact helped.

But my body could do no more. When I looked in the mirror I saw a perfectly normal thirty year old under curled hair, mascara and blush. And I was mad at her for looking so normal. Because on the inside, the pain throbbed and my rubbery limbs felt heavy and hallow.

I needed this hotel room. I finally stopped feeling guilty and melted into the bathroom floor.

There was no plumber or team of water extractors. No giant fans or sheet plastic to duck under.

Just perfectly white towels folded into triangles, and a mint on my pillow.

I wondered how in the world I was still awake and moving when I heard the squeal of the most patient seven month old the world has known. Mommy’s cry in the bathroom time was over.

I’ve never been very good at taking care of myself. In fact, I spent years lashing out at my body through self-harm. Then, I got sick and it started screaming at me, to care for it. During those weeks, my body doesn’t care if I look normal on the outside. It doesn’t care if I have guests in town or work to do. It doesn’t care if I have eighty-seven voicemails or a flooded living room.

All it cares about is a hot bath.

Deep breathing and stretches.

Medicine and good food.

Low light and a soft bed.

Quiet and peace.

I’m learning to follow it. Reluctantly.

 //

Erin began her life at her grandmother's house in West Texas, riding horses and searching for arrow heads. After surviving adolescence, she carved out a life in Austin where she married a photographer, gave-up on writing and recently started writing again. You can find more at A Peculiar Love, where she writes about our adoption journey and at Find Me In September where she writes when she's feeling brave.