Refined by Fire

Last night, I was sorting out through old boxes and found a large stack of "Get Well" cards from my former students. These were written two years ago when I first went on disability leave. They also gave me a backpack with all their signatures on it and some Christmas gifts as well. At the time, these cards made me so happy. I was missing my job dearly and was feeling so unbelievably lonely. I had 100% believed I would come back to work shortly and all would resume normally. Just like other things students had written for me in the past, I cherished these cards. But last night, they felt cold and cruel, and I ended up throwing them away. They sounded like the words, "HA! Remember when you actually thought you would return to work? That was stupid of you." Even after writing a billion articles about moving on from the loss of my teaching career, including a recent one , I still experienced pain so fresh, it felt like that traumatic year was happening all over again. ...

I remember when my parents first purchased you. I was 8 years old and still recall that first whiff of your newness as I slid into the backseat. This was the first time in my life my family had owned a new car and it felt luxurious. Many a road trip you took our little family of four. I remember sitting in the the backseat with my Gameboy Color playing Pokemon Yellow for hours as Dad drove us across the country. I even remember driving home from one particular trip, to Grand Mesa. The whole family had gotten some terrible stomach bug, and Mom and I got it the worst. Eyes closed and paper bag in my hands, I did my best not to vomit at every bump and turn (as I totally grossed out my sister). Soon, though, you'd drive me home, to chicken noodle soup and my own warm bed. You drove us to Holy Trinity for 5 years, my new school once Mom got her first teaching job there as the new 3rd grade teacher. There I'd meet some great kids who are still my best friends. Once I finally got...

This fall I’m approaching my two-year headache-versary. Almost exactly two years ago, I had to go on disability leave due to a headache that has still yet to end, and a heaping helping of chronic migraines added for good measure. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the beginning of the end. The pain would get worse, my anxiety was through the roof, and eventually I’d have to quit the job I loved. It was a gradual losing of control and of everything I had worked towards. It was a slow and painful fall away from my hopes and dreams. This time last year was admittedly more painful than now, as the wounds were still so fresh. I’d like to say that I’m able to handle the grief more graciously this time around because I’ve had a year to grow in wisdom, maturity, and acceptance. But more likely I think it’s just easier because the passage of time numbs me. The more time passes, the more my past headache-free days simply feel like a different life, a distant memory, and that makes it ...

Anyone who lives in chronic pain knows that the symptoms run much deeper than just a physical illness. Over the years, we tell ourselves stories to make sense of such a difficult life, whether we realize it or not. We grasp at reason and order in a life that often seems chaotic and out of our control. It is all too easy to allow the physical pain to seep into our psyches, and often in a harmful and counterproductive manner. It is time we recognize these unhealthy thought patterns, denounce them as lies, and refuse to allow our lives to be dictated by guilt-ridden false narratives.   Living with chronic migraine and chronic daily headache, I have an extremely unhealthy relationship with medication. When my journey first began, I was put on the most common migraine drug: Sumatriptan. I would take the allotted 9 pills per month and I desperately needed every pill I swallowed to put an end to a debilitating migraine. When the frequency of migraines gradually increased,...

Spoiler Alert for "The Giver" by Lois Lowry... But seriously, if you still haven't read that book, you should get on that! We live in a world that shoves pills and cliches down our throats to make the pain go away. Our remedy for suffering is to paint it gold, or better yet-- deny it even exists. Each time I tell my story of pain to a new doctor, it’s always the same routine. They hardly listen as their eyes lazily scroll through a list of medications on a screen, finding the one I haven’t tried yet. Last Thursday, I pleaded to my primary care physician, “It isn’t fibromyalgia. That is just a pretty label they slap on me so I stop whining.” He actually laughed. I continued, “There is something so wrong with my body. I am so sick every day. There is a root cause and we just need to find it.” What I got in response was the same rehearsed lecture I’ve heard a thousand times before-- about how finding the cause of migraine is virtually impossible, and the best we c...

Last Monday was a typical day for me. I woke up and waited a couple of hours to see if my pain would allow productivity. As the sharp throbs danced throughout my head, they finally settled at my right temple (as they usually do). When the pain faded to a dull ache, I began browsing for dinner recipes on Pinterest. Once I finally found an appealing one (salmon with a Siracha and honey marinade), I got dressed, went to the store for ingredients, and immediately began chopping and prepping when I returned home. I’ve only been married a month, and already this routine feels tired and worn. I am sure women who’ve been married for much longer than me (especially mothers) often feel the dull monotony of everyday life (which I imagine is the reason grocery aisles are often interrupted by a wall of tawdry romance novels). Yet, when you add the elements of a constant dull headache, sore muscles, and relentless fatigue, this monotony is multiplied by ten. Of course, at its worse, living ...

One thing that irks me (and really shouldn't) is when people try to instill hope in me that my chronic pain will get better. I know, deep down in my heart, they are coming from a place of genuine love and concern. They are trying to keep me going. Maybe this new drug or this new doctor really is the answer we've all been praying for. Or maybe it's just the simple statement, "I know you'll find the answer one day." The reason that this unsettles me so greatly is that no one can actually know that. I've already tried so many drugs, treatments, and different doctors, and in all honesty, the pain has just gotten worse. We don't actually know that I am going to find that miracle cure. We don't actually know that the pain will stop. We don't actually know that I am ever going to get better. That is my reality I'm trying to accept. Perhaps what my well-intentioned family and friends do not know, is that hope and I have a highly dysfunctional rel...