Having small fiber neuropathy and an autoimmune disease is a challenge.
Phil is out of town, and we received about five inches of snow yesterday.
We have a snow blower.
Logan is more than capable of using it or shoveling, and he was going to, but something inside me wouldn't let it go.
I wanted to do it.
It wasn't about proving to Phil that I could; I needed to prove it to myself, which, I know, sounds a little ridiculous. Physically pushing my body isn't wise, but I also know my limits.
I took breaks.
I paced myself.
The problem was the snow blower wouldn't start. No matter what I did, it refused to turn on. My frustration built because I just wanted to handle this on my own. I knew Phil felt terrible that he hadn't walked me through how to use it before he left, but I figured I was an intelligent, capable, 44-year-old woman. Yes, my neuropathy brain doesn't always function correctly, but I can follow instructions.
I can do this.
Except I couldn't.
Maybe because it hadn't been used for over a year. Maybe because it was 15 below, and the damn thing was just as stubborn as I was. Either way, the snow blower wasn't cooperating. So, I grabbed the shovel and got to work.
Our driveway is big, which was a selling point when we purchased our house, but now, looking at it with nearly 6 inches of snow plus rather tall drifts, I am no longer a fan.
I had to stop and rest a few times.
After an exchange of texts, Phil thought maybe the snow blower needed more gas. I went to fill it, but somehow, because, of course, I managed to spill gas everywhere.
On the snow blower.
On the garage floor.
And that was it—my breaking point.
Cue full-blown meltdown.
I called Phil, hating that I was bothering him while he prepped for a meeting, but I was standing in the freezing cold garage, crying over spilled gas and feeling utterly defeated.
He felt awful.
He just wanted to fix it.
But he couldn't.
After we hung up, I took a breath. Sat for a minute. And then, because dammit, I wasn't giving up, I decided to go back out.
I grabbed the shovel again, cleared more snow, and then marched back into the garage, determined. I went through every step, hitting the start button. And that stubborn, frigid beast roared to life.
I jumped for joy.
Fist pumped the air.
Now, there was a learning curve. I sprayed snow in every possible direction. I probably looked like a mad woman, but I didn't care. I was laughing while icicles formed in my lungs. I was covered in snow, my limbs were numb, and my face was frozen, but that could have been my neuropathy.
But I did it.
And I swear Dad had a hand in getting that thing to start on my last desperate attempt.
Once I was done, I snapped a picture and sent it to Phil and my mom.
Phil's response?
You should be proud of yourself because I am.
And you know what? I am proud.
Lately, I've been dealing with flare-ups, massive fatigue, and nerve stabs in my face and hands. Just existing in this body can be exhausting. And doing something as normal as snow blowing? It's nothing for most people. But for me, it was a huge deal because I did it. Because I could do it.
People worry.
It's warranted.
They don't want me to push myself.
Whether painting a room, shoveling, or anything else physical, I am advised to take it easy. But I hate feeling limited. It's not that I see my body as weak it is that I get really pissed at it for being an asshole, for constantly choosing violence.
I don't remember what normal feels like.
I don't remember life without neuropathy flare-ups, without the crushing fatigue.
It isn't easy.
But I tell you what, snow blowing my own damn driveway felt great because I fucking did that.
I agree, a little help from above; just when it was needed!! 😇🥰