Living with Pain

Chapter 22: Dance to the Melody of Grief

Sky

I can't get Cash out of my head. His broad shoulders and perfectly sculpted chest. His strong jaw and dark hair. His eyes, especially his eyes, blue-gray, piercing into my soul. I shove my earbuds into my ears and turn my music on full blast. The soulful songs wash over me and I find myself swaying to the tunes.

Without thinking, my feet carry me out of my bedroom and downstairs into the garage. It's been a long time since I've been in here. It's a three car garage, but we only park one car in here. The other two bays are filled with soft padding. I walk over to the long wall and pull the dusty sheets down, revealing a wall full of mirrors.

I sway in front of the mirror, looking at myself for the first time in a long time. My arms have lost a lot of their old muscle. My leggings hug my thighs, accentuating the loss of definition. My ribs poke out of my tank top. My hair is longer than it used to be, the straight blonde locks reaching mid-back.

I turn away from my reflection, deciding this is a bad idea, but then "Human," by Christina Perri starts to play and I pause. I turn back and look at myself, seeing a determination in my stance that I haven't seen in a while. I unplug my headphones and attach my phone to the speakers in the corner. I'm surprised when they turn on without a hitch.

I take a deep breath. In, 1, 2, 3, out, 4, 5, 6. And then I let the music take me away. I twist, turn, and leap like I haven't in years. My hair whips around me as I dance back and forth. I relish the feel of my bare feet on the soft footing.

I don't know how long I dance for, but when I finally stop to catch my breath, I'm dripping in sweat. I lean against the wall and slide to the ground. It's been too long since I've moved like that, since I allowed myself to feel like that. Tears prick at my eyes as I think back to all I have given up. All that I've been forced to let go because of a broken body.

I hear the door attaching the garage to the house open. I quickly wipe the tears from my face and stand up.

"You're dancing," Mom stands in the doorway, shock written all over her face.

"So," I shrug, trying to act like it's no big deal.

She smiles. "It's nice to see you happy."

I feel the tears prick at my eyes again and Mom's face quickly turns to one of concern. "What's wrong?"

"I just- I," I struggle to form the words. I throw my hands up and finally shout, "I hate this! I hate being this way and feeling good one day and then crashing the next. I hate that I've given up dancing and competing and running and everything physical except walks and yoga because I never know if it will make me feel better or worse, if I'll have the strength to function afterwards. I'm so sick of this. I'm so sick of fibromyalgia!"

I hate the look that Mom gives me, the pity and sorrow. But I couldn't help my outburst. I've held everything in for so long. I tetter between breaking into a sobbing pile and shouting angrily at the heavens for the poor hand I was dealt.

Mom walks over to me and pulls me into a hug, despite my sweaty body. "You will make it through. You are so strong.

I nod and try to take some deep breaths. I don't really want to hear her say that I'm strong when I feel so weak, but what is she supposed to say? What do you tell your teenage daughter who is grieving for a life she will never get back?

I pull away and brush the tears off my face. "I'm going to go shower."

I leave the garage, allowing myself one last look at the mirrors. At the trophies lining the shelves on the walls. Then I leave it behind, determined to let it go.

--

I get out of the shower and collapse on my bed, exhausted. I look at my phone and see a message from Cash.

Cash: Hey beautiful. Wanna hang out tonight?

I sigh. I am not up for people.

Me: Not tonight. I got homework. Maybe tomorrow.

I decide that it's time I tell him about fibromyalgia, but I'm not strong enough to do it tonight. Not when I'm in the middle of grieving for my old life. How can someone normal even understand? I literally cannot remember what it is like to be pain free.

My joints ache from all I had put them through, but my pounding headache lets me know I need to eat. With a groan, I head downstairs. I stop at the bottom when I hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. I had forgotten he was in town for a few days.

"Why are the sheets off the mirrors?" Dad asks.

"Sky was dancing."

"Really?" The surprise is clear in Dad's voice.

"You should have seen her. She was moving like I haven't seen in years. It's like she was able to forget everything for a while and just let her body be normal."

"Is she better?" I tense as I hear Dad's question. Who asks something like that? Chronic illness doesn't disappear overnight.

Mom sighs, "You know the answer to that. There isn't a cure. She's not getting better, just better at managing it. She has good days and bad days. I just hope she doesn't stop dancing. She needs it for her mind and body. It used to be her escape from the world, and I think it can be again."

I contemplate Mom's words. Maybe she is right. But then I feel the ache increase in my ribs. Or maybe she isn't. When the conversation turns to safer topics of Dad's work week, I walk into the kitchen.

We don't acknowledge each other much as I grab a corndog from the freezer and heat it up. Taking it and some baby carrots from the fridge, I head into the TV room and turn on a show, desperate to drown out the world through a different reality. 

Author's Note

It's hard to put what Sky is going through into words that portray it accurately.

The day I realized I wasn't getting better, that my life course was forever altered, was excruciating.  Even now, years later when I've learned to better manage myself, I have days when the grief is so strong. It may be silly to mourn over my old life, but when you can't remember what "pain free" is, it's hard not to.