My Body Screams

My body screams at me.

I'm certain it begins as a whisper.  Every time it warns me.  And I ignore it.  Every time.

I'm angry now.  At my body.  At myself.  I feel betrayed.

My back gave out on me last weekend and by Tuesday I was desperate.  I made the call and the long drive to Arlington to see my orthopedic surgeon.  He told me what I already knew; that my hip was injured and my back had been compensating.  It'd finally had enough.

So he prescribed some medication and made me promise that I would take it.  He knows me far too well.  He asked me if removing the hardware had helped.  I looked at him and tears filled my eyes.  "No."

"Well let's fix your back and then get to the root of the problem: your hip.  At least now we can get an MRI."  Then we scheduled the MRI arthrogram.  I'll see him again in a week.  I consider myself lucky to have found him 2 years ago.  He takes good care of me, even when I do not.

My body screams at me.  I can't move without wincing.  So I stay home while my family goes out.

It's quiet, which is nice.  I've started writing a novel.  An autobiography of sorts.  So the quiet beckons me to work. I consider myself a novelist in training, but I don't have a trainer.  I'm traveling this journey alone.  Today's work is comprised more of reading than writing.  Reading page after page from a tattered $1 spiral notebook.  My first semester of college.

I'm captivated.

My body screams at me.  Apparently, it always has.  Not a page in the story of my life is free from the ripples of physical pain.  It's constant.

Why?

Injury has terrorized and destroyed me.  My dreams.  I'm angry.  Again.

I'm more in tune with my body than most people.  I've learned to listen to it carefully.  Yet still.  It's not enough.

I feel like I'm engaged in a never-ceasing battle.  My body wages war against me and I against it.  I'm tired.  It's gone on for far too long.  I'm done.

But what does a truce look like?

I'm told we need to trust one-another.  But how?

Pain wears me down to nothing.  In the past it's made me starve myself.  It's driven me mad.

Today it drains me.  My energy.  My passion.  My ability to express myself eloquently in conversation.  My motivation to compose a post, work on my novel, or write in my journal.

The medication lessens the intensity of the pain, but my eyes glaze over and my spirit dims.  I feel like a shadow.  I'm not sure which is worse.

My body screams at me.

But the cycle must be broken.  I must rest.  I must eat.  I must listen to my body.  My treatment team.  My doctor.  Myself.

This place is good for me.  It puts me in my place.  It teaches me.  It always does.  There is purpose in these moments.  A lesson to be learned.  Growth to experience.  Revelation to sprout.  Stories to tell.  Compassion to behold.  Freedom to bud.  Humility to embrace.

Pain reminds me that I'm alive.

I do not know where this will lead.  It may be quite simple or rather complex.  Only time will tell.