Lockdown: Day 687

‘Pain is inevitable but misery is optional.’ Not my words, but it is the title of a book written by Pastor Andre Olivier from Rivers Church.

I can’t adequately describe how I feel and what an enormous weight I’ve carried around with me this month. Some days were utterly unbearable and disgusting. I felt overwhelmed. Others were mild. Honey-filled. Relaxing, calm, and full of colour. I had more of the latter, to be honest. However, it’s remarkable how raw and real the bad days seem to overshadow good ones. It’s just how we’re wired I guess. Like when we go to the shops and have a bad experience with a teller or another shopper. We don’t come home and settle in the rhythm of our lives without telling a sexy story.

Rough experiences define us.

So I said some things on New Year's Day. Got ignored by my boyfriend for a week afterward. Our first fight. I said some more things, rather typed some messages, and got ignored for another week. We broke up eventually, but a short while ago decided without saying too many words that we will exist in uncomfortable comfort with each other.

I don’t think either of us wants to be without each other. I adore this man because he’s smart, makes me laugh, isn’t demanding, is old-fashioned, and likes opening the car door for me. He’s gentle, soft - I think he’s quite handsome and he’s a father who cares about his children.

Thing is, I have not met anyone in his circle of friends or any of his family. I have no idea where he lives, or what his home looks like, I have no way of reaching this lovely human other than calling the cell number that he has given me. On paper, he could be a serial killer or a ‘Tinder swindler’. He may have a burner phone - I pray not. Also - I’m wiping my brow here - because I met him on Bumble. Tell me there’s a difference or if I’m being sensitive.

Men like to label me as an overthinker and someone stubborn. I’d like to think I got that from my mother.

I mean the apple never falls far from the tree.

I used to look at my mother and her body shape and pray hard that I don’t walk like her, have flat feet, or have her hips. But God’s got jokes. I look very much like my mum, I sway like her and my hips are the same shape.

BIG-ISH!

Last year in October a pain in my left hip began to trouble me at night or whenever I fell asleep on my left. It started irritating me every day following the race I ran in Cape Town. Initially, I thought it was post-marathon niggles but as the weeks barrelled towards Christmas the pain started running into my ankle and eventually settled in my knee.

This year I made an appointment with a physiotherapist I happened to run in next to my GP’s office. Prenesha met me on a Wednesday 4 weeks ago, gazed down at my toes, and exclaimed, “How long have you had Rheumatoid Arthritis?”

“WHAT?”

I felt my chest tighten and wondered whether the light-headedness was from an earlier run. Maybe my iron was low. The thing is I was in shock and couldn’t grab the reigns over my thoughts. My mind was racing at lightning speed and when I finally held Prenesha’s gaze my heart knew that I was in trouble.

My toes have these tiny knobs on them and I was unable to even move them during my first session. Today, they move slightly but they cannot bend. How on earth did I ever think this was normal?

I had for the longest time wondered whether I would inherit arthritis from my mother. My grandmother also suffered from it. My mother has it in her ankles, hands, and she sometimes complains about shoulder pain. She’s been arthritic for as long as I can remember so avoiding certain foods that she avoids came to mind. I don’t like mango anyway.

My ma and my mother both used walking rings, sticks, and pain medication as aids to cope with this debilitating bone condition. That scares me. Deteriorating. I was scared that day when I first met Prenesha. I went for an X-ray and pulled up older scans and together, she and I talked through the possibilities and eventual outcomes by looking at my bone spur jutting out of my foot. We discussed treatment options. I felt sick.

My fear was so real like a flock of crows near a carcass. I reeked of defeat and was so sorry for myself. I didn’t cry, just came home after each physio session for weeks and kept repeating: why me? Why now? Why? I am a runner. Does this mean I can’t run until I die? Will I ever run without that pain in my ankle and hip?

The questions. They fired fast and furiously from me like active firecrackers on New Year's Eve. I felt like I was exploding. Every fiber of my being was active and throbbing for solutions. I started to wonder what is the purpose of it all. What am I meant to do with arthritis?

This isn’t a season. I’m not going to get better. Instead, I’m going to get worse. So I got mad. I got mad about small things. I cry in the shower so I don’t alarm my mother some days. I cried.

What am I meant to do?

I tried to pray and still pray to find a balance in my soul that accepts what God has allowed.

I have run less than 50 km’s in the past month and that makes me feel alone and isolated. The comfort of blades of grass brushing through my fingers as I pound tar freely with my running group has ground to a halt. I miss them. Their chatter. Their laughter and the way their feet hit the ground. I miss all of them, all of the quiet moments just before the sun rises. I miss my routine.

My new routine consists of activating my bones every morning. I move them individually, one toe at a time twice a day. I do specific exercises for my calf. I am not allowed to squat but I don’t complain about this. Squats are positively sinful. The rate at which I move has slowed down and I feel grumpy all the time. I don’t feel like sitting and reading anymore because I dread the getting up part.

The worst part of all of this is that I’m eating my feelings. I eat all day and I hate myself at the end of most days. I just get so mad because all I want to do is run but I’m in constant pain.

I’ve also waited for a while before telling anyone I have rheumatoid arthritis because I wanted to decide how I feel about it. A week ago I was encouraged during a meeting with a few of the members from my church not to feel sad about not advancing in the recent MasterChef auditions. I felt weak that night. Weak. I asked them for prayer and revealed my diagnosis. I was taken aback when another person shared her diagnosis with us. So I wasn’t alone. I had been feeling like a complete island until that moment. Then something shifted and I started to feel hopeful.

I had a chat with my friend Maggy and she re-iterated, “Ask God. Now, what do you want me to do with this?”

So I did. I cried with her and for the first time in weeks felt a release. I felt like I could see the sunrise and didn’t feel like I was in a dark room by myself battling demons with a machine gun and some bombs. I didn’t feel like exploding anymore.

Days since then have gotten better. I’ve settled on physiotherapy as a way to manage my pain for now and I’ve been given the all-clear to run again but with limitations. The minute I feel pain, I stop. If I continue and feel pain, it’s on me. The consequences will be more pain and who wants that, right?

I am still learning and figuring out how to balance my pain. It means that I have to constantly keep moving and not sit or stand for too long in one spot.

So technically I can’t drive anywhere without stopping at every little roadside padstal. No longer is it a luxury - it’s now become a necessity. And if I buy rusks or homemade Turkish Delight, so be it. I’m not diabetic.

The beautiful Jane Marczewski, died aged 31, last week of cancer. She appeared in season 16 on America’s Got Talent. What a formidable voice of resilience and wonder. What a real, strong woman who wasn’t afraid to share that when she was sad, she was sad.

She said something poignant once and it made me think. It was about giving up. Nothing can ever prepare you with a life-changing diagnosis but we must fight.

“The pain of giving up is much worse.” Nightbirde.

Pastor Andre writes,” When faced with bad situations, we always have several options open to us. They are to flee, fight, fall apart, fantasize, or face up to it.

“It’s not about where you find yourself, but about how you handle yourself.”

Tonight as I finish this blog my ankle is still throbbing. I have burnt muffins on the counter and lovely chicken curry on the stove. It’s gloomy outside and my jeans feel like it’s fitting me just a little too tightly around the waist. However, the turmoil in my heart feels like it’s settled much as heartburn settles with Gaviscon.

I am listening to my mum on the phone and counting blessings before the next wave of anger heads my way. I am learning to accept that pain will always be a part of my life, physically. Pain, in general, is a part of life, and the sooner I figure out how to live my life in a state of wild abandon despite the frequency of my pain, the happier I will be.

This is my only goal as we head into March.

PS. My kitten is growing. She eats anything that moves, including Christmas beetles and her favourite sleep spot under my armpit.

P.S.S My mother calls my kitten baba. Her newfound obsession includes moving biscuits into smaller Tupperware after she shrinks our stash. And she calls my boyfriend Rahul - that is not his name.