Mrs Bones

Another Hot Red Cantaloupe

No walk for me today – my right knee blew up like a red cantaloupe overnight (again), and while I’ve managed to get it to bear weight, it fights me on bending so better not to attempt the stairs without someone home to call 911 if it buckles. It’s not an excuse to avoid walking, either; I’m miffed about it because I really enjoy my solitary sojourns on my mornings off.

No matter. I have appeased my OCD regarding dust on the dark wood furniture and am ready to hit the writing computer when I’m done here. In fact, horror of horrors, I got an idea for untangling the knot I left in the novel at the same time I got a nibble for my next scene with Cristal. This means a little internal duelling to decide which thread gets my attention. It’ll be a good writing day.

I got my marathon Newsroom viewing done yesterday, when my right knee blew up the first time and kept me off work as well as off my feet. Two days running, it’s flared at 4:00 in the morning and I can’t figure out why. The usual suspects are notably absent from my diet, so it must be, er, um, hormones. These wonderful shifts in the female cycle can cause arthritic flares. I swear, whoever said it was great to be a girl had to be a guy.

Not only have I been dealing with hormones since I was thirteen, I’ve been dealing with arthritis since then as well. My younger older brother, The Handsome One, tagged me with the nickname “Mrs. Bones” when I was a teenager and still calls me by it thirty-some years later. It’s nice to be special that way. I have a few nicknames, but this one is my sentimental favourite.

I don’t know how my illness affected the rest of my family. I do know that I wasn’t the only one who had to cope with it. My focus was exclusively narrowed on getting through every day, sometimes moment by moment, so either I didn’t notice how everyone else reacted or they did such a good job of hiding it that I wouldn’t have seen it if I had been looking. We’re a pretty stoic bunch despite the powerful emotion roiling beneath our collective skin. I don’t remember talking about it with any of them. I tried not to talk about it at all. I just … got through it. My mother believed that she had done something to make God mad and He was taking it out on me; I hope she’s let that go because I never ever believed that. My bones were my challenge, but being aware of how much Mum suffered for my pain, I did all I could to be as normal as my healthier siblings – thrice-weekly physio and ongoing medical appointments notwithstanding. Mum was with me every step of the way, for which I am eternally grateful, but I also know the rest of the family, my wee sister especially, felt the loss of her attention.

Ironically, both my mother and my wee sister have been diagnosed with the same cursed thing during the last decade, and my father is starting to feel the effects of “everyone’s bones” – the arthritis we all get as wear and tear builds on ageing joints. Each of them has said to me at some point in the past few years, “I don’t know how you did it.”

You know what? Neither do I. I sat with a bag of ice on my knee this morning and stupidly said to Ter, “I think my walk is toast today.” She gave me the look that warned I’d be toast if I tried to push it – my parents once worried how I would manage when I left the nest. With Ter on board, they truly have no need to be concerned. I’m more afraid of her than I ever was of them!

Annoyingly painful as these incidents are, they serve as a good reminder of where I came from and what I was able to overcome with the support of my whole family. Even if all my brother could do to help me feel better was to give me a nickname, he did it. And it helped.