Originally posted February 18, 2014
Everyday, I open my eyes and I say “Thank You for another day!” to the universe, to God, to who ever is out there looking down on us as I try to connect spiritually. And then I take a deep conscious breath, deep into my chest, and I am almost instantly brought back to my physical consciousness as I feel the ache deep within as my chest expands. The ache as if my lungs are so stiff they creak as they expand.
I turn and every muscle in my torso gives a muffled cry and I pull myself to a seated position. I sit for a moment to settle and re-accustom myself to the morning aches. I take another, deep, uncomfortable breath and allow the oxygen being fed into my nostrils from the plastic tubes that hug my face to enter my lungs one last time.
I remove the nasal cannula from confining me, hugging onto my face like two skinny fingers, pressed against my skin, and hang it like a hangman’s noose on my bed post, as I slip my feet into my slippers and stand, and try to get my body’s proprioceptors into high gear. But they are slow to respond, like a car on a freezing morning, and I clumsily make my way to the bathroom to get ready for the day.
It will take me approximately two hours before I start to feel as if I am conscious, maybe more. And although the morning aches and pains will subside eventually, I will feel twinges of pain in my torso through out the day as I go along.
These past two weeks I have a dull headache, sometimes manifesting into a full blown cluster headache, the worst headache there is. But I trudge through the pain and the day, and I smile and try not to let anybody know the pain that I am in. They won’t understand. I wince internally. And I try to ignore the fatigue, the pain, the need to just go curl up and sleep. I fight. I constantly fight through this life with sarcoidosis.
But I smile. I am thankful. I am glad. I can work. I can drive. I can walk. I can. And that’s all I need to remind me to be able to get through my day. And when I get home, I relax. And I go to bed. And I lie in bed, sometimes unable to get comfortable. The pain in my lungs. I turn. The pain in my chest from my defibrillator. It sticks into me, and I turn again, and I find a spot. A spot without pain. And I take a deep breath in from those plastic tubes, and I revel in the pain free moments, and as I begin to dose off, I am again reminded that I have this disease with me. And it hurts. And I turn. And I eventually sleep, waking now and then from some discomfort, And the alarm goes off, and here I go again.