As of about a year ago, I'm on a newish-to-me medication called norethindrone that, for the most part, is controlling most of my symptoms; I also found that limiting my caffeine helps keep some of the flare-ups at bay. However, I still get random, horrible flare-ups of my symptoms from time to time, and often I can't find a trigger that led to said issue.
A few weeks ago, it was one of those days.
I woke up with my entire pelvic cavity spasming. Think of muscle (or, if you're a woman like me, period) cramps, but make them take over your entire lower pelvis and make them borderline unbearable. I also feel like I've got golf balls inside of my pelvis, one on each side but away from my actual hip joints. Once I was fully awake, I quickly realized I had dull aches under my ribs on the right side and my entire abdomen was cramping. My lower back is also cramped up...okay, no, my entire back. These pains kicked in early the day before, and they'd been coming and going. Advil and Aleve are my usual stand-bys for this mess: I take Advil if they're on the milder side and Aleve for longer lasting and/or tougher flare-ups. That day was one where I counted down the minutes until I could take another 12-hour dose of Aleve, which was just barely taking the edge off my pain.
On days like those, I refer back to what a past student taught me once. It's called The Spoon Theory, and it is mean to explain life with chronic pain and/or illness to those who don't have such challenges. Basically, everyone wakes up every day with a set amount of spoons. Those spoons have to last you the entire day as you cannot obtain anymore for the day, though you can bank spare ones from the previous day. This is normally a very easy thing to do as many of our daily tasks take no effort (and, therefore, no spoons). Those with chronic pain or illness, however, have to use their spoons for even the most basic of tasks (like getting dressed, using the bathroom, or [in my case on exceptionally bad days] even the mere attempt of getting into their car to prepare to drive to work). As a result, their spoons run out faster, and their choices for how their day will go are limited; these people also have to bank spoons at the end of each day as running out may prove to make the next few days impossible for them as they never know how many spoons will be consumed by their conditions.
In my case, I find myself in a strange game of "Can I make it through work or not?" when I have particularly bad flare-ups. Sitting up in bed--not even getting out of my bed--will take a spoon on those days as that involves bending from the waist. The drive to work could take three alone (sitting in car and putting the seatbelt across my lap, the drive itself, and getting out of the car), nevertheless the drive home that afternoon. I also cannot even begin to estimate how many spoons my teaching job could take as I never know how many times I have to move from sitting to standing and back in a day or if I'll have the energy to avoid sitting by standing all day long. It is a very, very rare day when I can't make it through work, but often I come home too exhausted to do anything but face-plant into the couch. I normally overuse spoons on my first day of a flare-up making some massive meal my husband and I can reheat for a few days--just to be sure we're both still eating okay.
Despite the pain and the effort ignoring it can take, I'm stubborn enough to go on without people knowing what's happening inside of me. Often, the only clues people will be able to spot may be a shorter-than-normal temper or a determination to not have to get up out of my chair more than usual. I carry around a rice bag--essentially, a cloth bag full of rice I heat to work like a heating pad--everywhere I go on terrible days; often, it's my best source of pain relief. I never bring up why it's with me (even on 90+ degree Fahrenheit days), simply electing to use it when I need it so I can make it through my day. My students, however, have learned that rice bag, if it doesn't leave my lap, means I'm having a bad day.
Days like those remind me of what I do and why I'm passionate about adult education. Some of my students are what society considers the worst of the worst: it views them as drains on our resources and useless, selfish people. However, if I show up at work with my rice bag or if they catch me quickly taking medication between classes, a few of my students step up to the plate. They go out of their way to not make me get out of my seat in class, bringing questions to me or doubling their efforts to help each other. They never come right out and tell each other that I'm in pain: instead, they find little, meaningful ways to help me out without making me feel like a sick, weak problem. When I came back from a diagnostic surgery last summer, students literally wouldn't even let me carry a binder for weeks. One of them always went and got the binder I needed off the shelf and had it on my table, ready for class. Another would meet me at my office door to carry the books I needed to our classroom. A third would walk the sign-in sheet around or bring any papers students finished right to me.
All of these are little things they don't have to do, that no one asked them to do, yet they still took the initiative. Yes, some of these students have done some pretty horrible things in their pasts. Others may simply be in the trenches of generational poverty and, sadly, cannot see a life for themselves past the one that they already know and that society routinely (and openly) despises. Irregardless, they are deserving of respect as fellow people, just as we would want to be treated with respect.
So remember that you can't tell at a glance just what a person is going through. Teachers (and people) like me may seem like we have it all together but may be literally screaming inside. People who look rough may suffer in ways they can never describe. Lend respect and love to all you can, and own up when you have a rough day.
And give yourself some forgiveness for when you screw up. We all do.
