(A sort of Letter to the Editor, if you will.)
I’m aching tonight. I’m tempted to beg of you to cut me some slack. Please, just a break? You’ve had hold of my knees for years. Grinding, little pebbles in my knees. Pain while walking with insides made of gravel.
A while later, you grabbed the ankles. Crack. Super to shop in the shoe departments, and find shoes I like. Gotta buy double, though. Why? Because some days I wear a Size 8, and other days, when my ankles are especially painful and swollen, I upgrade to the same shoes except in a Size 9. On especially fun days, one foot requires the 8 and the other the 9. When I look down, I think of circus clowns. The ones with the sad faces. I’ve always hated clowns. They look demented.
Not so long ago, I began hearing noises come from my shoulders. Crunch. Choosing a blouse in the closet and removing it from the hanger, the pain is not only intense in my shoulders, but added to it? The action, the movement, to slide the garment off the hanger shoots burning pain down my arms as if lightning had struck my neck and was sending electric currents through my wrists.
And now you attack my hands. Deform. Was it not enough when Fibro-Fog began snatching words here and there and stealing memories? Now you must also charge a hefty price in order to be able to type and share my thoughts, my stories. What a thing to do to a writer. I awake groaning for help. My husband grabs the Vicks or a prescription gel to apply to my hands. We then get the gloves on my hands and wrap them in a heating pad.