Perspective

            The first episodes of extreme fatigue twenty years ago frightened me.  They would strike hard and fast, without any warning system I could detect.  One weekend, my son was off to a Taekwondo event and daughter off to a church youth event.  I was supposed to be a speaker at a women’s retreat.  Instead, I spent two days on the living room couch resting, sleeping, and worrying.

            Why was I so exhausted?  How long would this last?  What were the strange buzzings and tingling sensations that zapped about in my legs and arms?  What was this traveling pain that varied from heavy ache to stabbing knife? My legs were weak when I shuffled across the living room to the kitchen to get a drink or food.  I had no concentration for reading or for listening to music or anything else.   

            But that Monday, life resumed, and I made it through another week of work.  Doctor visits and lab work yielded no definitive diagnosis, though the symptoms seemed to indicate an autoimmune disease called Sjogren’s Syndrome.  It took another six years or so before that label got scrapped and I ended up with what I secretly thought of as the hypochondriac’s illness:  fibromyalgia.

            I was fortunate to have a doctor who took me seriously through those years and who was willing to treat my symptoms.  We tried various medications (thank goodness I had excellent prescription insurance) and ended up with a combination of anti-inflammatory, anti-depressant, and muscle relaxant that reduced my symptoms.  I learned to pace myself, take a short nap over the lunch hour, and read everything I could about fibromyalgia, which is still not well understood.

            My quality of life improved greatly when I quit the work force in 2008—made possible by the generosity of my brothers and mother—to become my mother’s primary caregiver.  I settled into less structured days, simple housekeeping and cooking, and learning the art of living with the slow descent of Mom’s Alzheimer’s Disease.  It was a Renaissance of sorts for me, living in the beautiful wooded center of Whidbey Island; joining church choir, a woodwinds ensemble, and a flute choir; and taking flute lessons.  I had time to write, time to be with my mother and youngest brother, and time to slow down my already leisurely pace when fatigue and pain descended.

            Eventually, Mom’s physical health and memory loss deteriorated to the point that we moved her out of her house and into HomePlace, a memory care facility in nearby Oak Harbor.  I stayed on in her home next to my brother’s and visited her a couple times a week (which I now understand was not nearly often enough).  When Mom died in May 2013, as much as I loved living in such a beautiful setting with dear friends, music, and writing to fill my days, I knew it was time to leave.  The siren song of grandchildren in Bartlesville, Oklahoma pulled me east that October.

            And so here I am, five years later, the same amount of time I lived on the island.  Growing family, dear friends, and church life define my days.  The triple negative breast cancer of 2016-17 took its toll, creating a one-year rest stop from virtually everything except blogging.  I am still very tired; as I phase down from a month of prednisone for a severe eczema flare, life has slowed to a snail’s pace again. 

            But I know more than I did twenty years ago.  I know that today does not determine the forecast of all my days.  Sleep and rest, good nutrition and exercise as tolerated will take me through.  There is a simplicity to choosing one’s activities well.  There is hope for days when I can do more, and peace for the days I cannot.  The joy of the Lord is my strength.