Chronic illness costs more than you’d think. Financially speaking, it’s the thousands of dollars spent on doctor’s appointments and medications. It’s the medicines, salves, and mobility aids not covered by insurance. It’s takeout in place of a home-cooked meal. It’s time lost at work due to sleepless nights and bone deep fatigue. It’s whole careers and goals, and starting over with new dreams and hopes.
There’s also an emotional toll.
It’s the frustration of finding the right treatment and the side effects of medications. It’s the devastation of years of pain. It’s evenings crying at the sink because it hurts to wash dishes when wrists bend to scrub. It’s the sharp inhalation of breath every time you bend over because knees won’t bend and hips shift as if on broken glass. It’s feeling exhausted after taking a shower, or skipping one because it’d only wipe you out completely.
Then there’s the pain of friends and family who don’t get it. It’s comments like “You’re not using your cane! You must be all better!” It’s dismissive belittling: “That’s not too heavy,” “You just need to walk more.” It’s the feigned interest, the change of subject.
The most substantial cost, though, comes when those close to you—the people you thought understood—actually don’t. It’s the priciest lesson, the deepest cut.
It’s a common occurrence for people with chronic illnesses. It happens to us all the time. We’re treated as an inconvenience—or worse, we’re treated as if we’re purposely inconveniencing someone else.
As if we have control over our illnesses or the weather.
Chronic illness teaches you who’s real and who isn’t, who truly belongs in your life. People like my mom and sister, who stopped by when I couldn’t go apple picking a few weeks ago and brought me apple cider donuts. They drank tea with me and turned an otherwise miserable and lonely afternoon into a nice memory.
All people like me need is a bit of understanding. We don’t enjoy canceling plans. It’s not fun being stuck home under an electric blanket and painkillers. I’d much rather be able to get out and live, but my body often has other plans. Slowly I’m learning to live around it, but it’s even harder to live around a broken heart.