Resilient
One year.
It nears.
The Saturday morning that changed everything.
Me. My family.
When something within you and not under your control happens, it leaves you vulnerable.
Unsafe.
When the TIA occurred, it was fast. Unbeknownst to me, the B6 and B12 deficiencies had begun a war on my nervous system. However, the outcome would've been catastrophic if the TIA hadn't happened. So though it was terrifying, it had to be part of my timeline, as did the Small Fiber Neuropathy. It has forced me to listen to my body. I have no other choice. Neuropathy Fatigue is real. I look fine. I sound fine but walking to the kitchen from the couch leaves me breathless. It's normal, especially after acupuncture or injection days. It's a fatigue that no matter how much I rest, it doesn't matter.
I'm exponentially better than a few months ago; I couldn't climb the stairs, drive, or even vacuum. Now I can lift my kettlebells, walk a few blocks, and sit at my desk for more than two minutes. My facial numbness remains; however, I have more control of the left side and can smile without pain. My nerve regeneration is slow but steady. I have a slew of appointments coming up, leading to more completion of this perplexing puzzle.
Chronic illness and pain are easily dismissed by people who have no clue what it's like—the uptick of anxiety and depression. I had a neurologist chalk up my symptoms to hormones and migraines, "You need the Kardashian medication."
Sure thing, dude.
Thanks for the mansplain.
When I wasn't heard, I spoke louder. I quickly discovered no one could advocate for my health but me. If I had to go through every specialist in the Upstate, I would. If I had to pay for my blood tests to prove something was going on, I would—scans, whatever it took, because I have to be here. I have to be here for my family; there is no other option. I'm grateful my care team hears me. We may not always agree, but we figure out the next steps together. My primary physician is a compassionate soul; she cries with me, comforts me, and in my darkest days, messaged me almost daily to check in. My second neurologist (after the condescending, misogynistic ass) knew something was wrong.
It wasn't hormones and migraines.
A woman's intuition is never mistaken.
It's taken time for me to mourn the body I once knew. Mourn who I was. Say goodbye. It's a process I had to work through on my own and in my own time. People told me repeatedly it wasn't my fault or to move forward and stop looking back at that day, but it doesn't work like that.
Trauma doesn't work like that.
The entangled emotions don't simply straighten because people say, "get over it." Instead, they are tethered to various elements of the body, mind, and soul. Recovery is messy. It's hard, especially when you have a pissed-off cracked nervous system.
I am different. Very different. I'm learning this new me, and I love her deeply. She has fire in her veins and will never give up.
Be patient with people. Be kind. Be empathetic.
When I'm quiet, it's not my intention to ignore or be anti-social; it's because I can hardly form a thought, my pain is at extra levels, or the fatigue has knocked me down.
I've read in a few neuropathy and chronic illness groups of people shamed and criticized; they are portrayed in their families or circle of friends as insensitive, selfish, or attention seeking. That's sad and unkind.
We are trying.
Everyday.
And we are resilient.
