Aches and Pains

Well, crap. When they told me my arthritis would burn out in eight or ten years, they forgot to mention that I’d have to deal with repercussions. Maybe I should have seen it coming, but I totally missed that the damage done to my joints as a teen would come back to bite me in middle age.

Recently, and by that I mean as adults, my mum and wee sister have both been diagnosed with RA, and each of them has said to me that they don’t know how I lived with it all those years ago.

Truth is, neither do I.

Credit the strength and energy of youth ... and a poor memory for hard times. I did it because I had to, but it must have been tough. There were long stretches when I couldn’t move worth a darn; I do recall being camped on the couch with a book and blanket while Dad and my sibs trooped off to work and school. I missed a lot of school that first year, and in subsequent years, too.

I’m thinking on it now because the past few weeks have been particularly annoying. It’s not just my hinges or ball-and-sockets, either. My tendonitis is back with a vengeance (though I imagine curtailing my colouring might help alleviate the situation), and I’ve been to a bunch of appointments while trying to solve the mystery of my right knee. It’s fine when I’m not moving around and it’s fine when I’m standing still, but try to walk on it and it bites back. I’m not complaining—okay, maybe I am—but I am pondering the precondition and why it’s acting up right now.

The last time I was racked up like this was in 2011/12, when I was so stressed about the home situation that my back kept going out. And, yes, I am somewhat stressed at present—though this time, home is not the arena. There’s a lot going on at work, some good, some not so much, and all happening at the same time. For me, “change management” often means “pain management” and once my mental angst is done, my physical angst should follow suit.

I had a good talk with my executive director last week. I was razzing him about losing his phone and his keys and his building access card, suggesting that an idiot string might be in order, when he looked at me and wondered aloud what the heck was going on. He’s a young man; he shouldn’t be so scattered. I shrugged and said, “It’s evidence of too many daggers in the air.”

I may just have answered my own question. These days, coping skills are stretched to their absolute limits; life is not supposed to be an extreme sport, yet it’s certainly acting like one. We have so much coming at us so fast that we can’t possibly handle everything at once—and yet we try. We fear that failing will mark us as failures, but why does it have to be our fault? Humans are not designed to multi-task. We’re meant to do one thing at a time, but with so many knives in the air, how many of us are doing anything to the best of our innate ability?

No wonder my knees are acting up.