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So much of my early forties has been a pleasure, thus far. Giving less of a hoot about what other people think is a lot of fun. Having helpful tips on hand for my peers as they newly experience aches and pains I’ve had since my twenties is bittersweet. One of the best parts is experiencing a life devoid of shock when something unexpected goes on with my bodily functions, particularly when it relates to disability.
A few weeks ago I was in a flush of events and busyness that come part and parcel with being a freelancer. In the space of a week I facilitated a monthly group of disabled writers, co-hosted a trivia fundraiser, then co-facilitated a writing workshop the following morning two hour’s drive away. I stayed in Naarm for some rare social time til twilight before the long drive home, arriving in time to put the kids to bed. I’d filled the extrovert part of my cup to the brim.
The physical part of me was in absolute shambles. Like many people with connective tissue disorders, once the dust of fading adrenaline settles, it’s time to pay the piper. In the middle of the night my old friend the irritable bowel fairy made herself known. Pain radiated down my legs and rippled in jagged stabs through my abdomen. My right leg was completely asleep and felt like the television’s test pattern used to look. I lay not quite awake and not quite asleep, a zombie pile of limbs and agonies.
This is how my physical self sounds the alarm.
You’ve pushed it too far. We, the mind and body, can only do so much together, and you need spaciousness around these levels of activity.
I’m listening, I murmured to myself. I’ll slow down, I promise. Then I shat the bed, twice.
Any number of reactions might come to the surface at that moment. Fear of what it means in an ongoing capacity, shame about not being able to have a regular interaction with the bathroom, fury around how unfair it is for a new symptom to potentially be added to the list alongside a cluster of disabilities. None of these came up.
This had never happened before. I’m unsure if it was exhaustion or some deeper understanding of where I’m at, but all that came to mind was “Oh, I’ll need to change my bedlinen but I don’t have the energy to lift my head right now. I wonder what will happen?” The pain went on, stampeding through my legs, my lower back and my stomach. I managed to get up and hop in the shower, a few steps away from where I sleep. My face was grey in the mirror, my skin clammy, and a heavy ache traversed my entire body. After showering, I put a towel down and fell into a heavy sleep.
When you know your disabled body well, identifying the root cause of something unexpected is simple. I knew this was not food poisoning or gastro. Having deep phobia of germs means I can feel these things kicking off from a mile away. What happened was a symptom of prolonged fatigue, combined with abating adrenaline. The mixture of excitement and energy is helpful, it gives me a boost when facing an external audience. That version of me is just as real as the one that sometimes can’t tolerate the weight of a blanket on skin that becomes sensitive with fatigue, and the version who can play with my children, or talk quietly with my friends.
When my children wet the bed or have an accident, it feels straightforward that shame has no place in that moment. It’s my job to help them understand that bodies can be unpredictable, that we can do our best. Oftentimes things are out of our control.
How liberating, how gentle, to know without question that I deserve the same compassionate gaze as the people I love most of all? My body needed to stop, and demonstrated this by not stopping. The control over my bowels I had taken for granted had been traded for the extra time being upright.
It is no small thing to have shifting sands within your own body, to learn and learn and learn some more as this vessel demonstrates its secrets. How do you regard the wise old friend who has been with you always: your own body?
The answer that met this silent question was peaceful. With all of my defences gone, with no mask, and the persona that the world sees discarded, I understood. That a useful place to start is in quiet, at rest. Listening, then offering, and back and forth between myself and I. Allowing the truest parts to rise up above the din, and greeting the kindness that meets me there.
As the book I read to my kids says, Everybody Poops. Sometimes when you’ve put your exhausted body through a bit too much it happens in your bed. Then when you’re not looking, your partner changes your sheets for you and you see belonging and gentleness all around. That it ripples outside of your home and deep within you. Your bowels return to their regular way of being but the love that you generate and that surrounds you remains clear and bright.
I thank my body for its service. We’ve been through so much, and I am finding the part of me more and more that treats this vessel with respect and positive regard. What is in all likelihood the second half of my time on Earth, the second act, I pledge to continue being gentler than I was in the first.