Week 14 Theme

The peeler clangs to the sink, she holds a half peeled apple in one hand and her forehead in the other. Bending forward over the kitchen sink, she cringes from the pain, sweat dripping into her eyes – salty and warm – burning and itching; she’s tired but can not sleep. The clock on the wall behind her ticks a very quiet ‘tap’ ‘tap’ ‘tap’, everyone will be hungry soon and this is only the first apple.

She used to love baking homemade meals, oh, how she took that for granted. Her kids complain she does not cook enough anymore, little do they realize the torture of cutting up potatoes, peeling apples….to use the electric mixer is excruciating, she has to keep stopping every minute or so, the pain in her arm makes her cry but she does not tell them this, she won’t, they do not need to know why their mom is not the same.

She is still bent over the sink when he walks in the door, married for almost ten years, they have been so close and yet are still so far apart; he has not been able to understand the pain that climbs up her legs like a thousand needles marching in form – spreading across her back and shooting out the tips of her fingers. He does not understand why she is always over heated, why she does not smile the way she once did, why she sleeps the days away, he does not understand why she does not bake her apple pies for him anymore. He sighs; frozen pizza again tonight.

Pillsbury has become her new best friend, he makes for her all the things she no longer can…the pie crust, cookies, breads – oh how her children loved her banana bread. She expected this pain to come but not for at least another thirty years or more, she is still too young, only in her early forties not ready to throw in the towel. To have a mind so active and a body so weak, she wonders what is happening to her life.

He already has the t.v. channel on the race, when she leaves the sink to crash on the couch again. He knows not to ask what’s wrong, this year – he remembers. Every Christmas has been hard for her since her father died, that’s when all her pain started, it is when she started sleeping more, when her smile faded and when the smell of fresh baked apple pie left the house. He wants her back, to be happy again but he doesn’t know what to do and he is growing tired too.

Fybro Myalgia is what her doctors have told her, she cares not for the name - the name is meaningless; it puts a small title to the horrible thing that is taking her life from her, that is eating at her from the inside out. She can hear him sighing in his chair, doesn’t he know she wants to be better, she wants to be active again but the constant migraines, the endless fatigue, the pain in her leg muscles so sharp and sensitive she feels if she stands they will buckle beneath her….doesn’t he know – this is not what she wants.

The snow is really picking up, the kids will be coming inside soon; they are too old to slide now…probably best, that is something she did with them each winter and now it would be one more way she would disappoint them. Sometimes she can not bare the thought of looking them in the eyes, they never tell her with words how sad they are she is not the same but she fears their eyes will say it all; stares that would be too hard for her to bare.

The half peeled apple sits alone on the counter; her husband dozes in his chair when the kids come in from the cold; the youngest one heads to the kitchen to start supper. Casual chatter starts up and for a brief moment life feels normal and then her shoulders tighten up and her stomach cramps but she grins so they won’t take notice. Together like this, it feels warm and she would like to hold on to that feeling…that small sense of normalcy.

Her friend arrives at the door, knocks twice, waits for the dogs and then enters. The home feels warm to her, she sees the youngest at the stove and smells something yummy coming from the kitchen, she sees the other two children on the couch with their mother, resting, playing on their laptops and chatting about odd things that get them laughing - little personal inside jokes. She sees her friend’s husband in his comfy chair relaxing and smiling from time to time at his wife. They all look at her – each of them, with love and admiration for what a strong individual she has shown herself to be, they see her not as the woman whose illness is taking her over but as the wife and mother who is fighting that illness – they look at her….with eyes that understand; her friend smiles and joins them.

Each day is a battle for her, some days better then others but it is small moments like this that give her hope. She used to love to run, she can remember that each time she would come to a hill her heart would beat a little faster, her breathing would grow a little heavier and quicken, her muscles would burn and scream but she would run on to the top of the hill just the same. She knows right now she is on a hill and there is an ongoing battle she must fight to make it to the top and she knows… she won’t give up – these people who love her, her husband, her children, her dearest friend – they need her and she needs them…so, she will keep climbing then maybe….just maybe when she gets to the top…maybe then – it will be time for pie again.