Chronic Illness
A Night Tour of the Chronic Life
Chronic illness during the loneliest hours
It always starts with a sniffle. Then my eyes begin to run. The nightly attack is here; it’s 3:00 a.m. — of course, it’s here. Chemicals with names I can’t pronounce secrete their poison in my body at night. It begins with the sniffle, then an ache and a whimper — a slow rumble deep in my belly and bones. It ends with stabbing agony and a muffled scream.
Sudden vertigo, then cold. So cold. Shaking, shitting, shivering, puking, pain.
Pain burns from my fingertips to my feet. My muscles squeeze tight and cramp, and I’m so cold I’ll never get warm. Teeth chattering. Hot sweat pours down my face. My eyes don’t stop running, but I’m not crying. I never cry, not for the pain. It doesn’t deserve it. Something takes hold of my stomach and wrings it hard, like a wet towel, squeezing, squeezing. It takes my breath away. A hot iron rod feels like it’s been shoved through my guts and my back.
I consider the hospital, knowing they’ll admit me, only to acknowledge that they don’t know how to treat my disease. I bring protocols signed by my doctor, yet they rarely ask me to educate them. Frustration builds, and once again, I forgo the ambulance and the possible help that can be given. It’s not worth the…
