Wrist Braces

Disease like mine stirs so many mixed emotions. So many push and pulls, bittersweet relationships, and interdependent struggles. When I discovered the truth about what was happening in my body, I didn’t know whether to rejoice for finally having an answer, or weep for what that answer was.

At the ripe age of 16, I was striving to earn my independence. License in hand, car in possession, upperclassmen status achieved, college just two years away, I was so ready to grow up. I was finally learning how to be my own person. A journey that took years in the making, I was discovering myself and was okay with who that person was. I taught myself patience—what I still think to be one of my greatest accomplishments. And finally, I was someone I could be proud of. Old enemies forgiven, old grudges let go, all I could do was get better. Absolutely nothing would get between my inarguably bright future and me. You see, I was so excited to grow up. So excited to move on to the adult chapter of my life. And I think that is why it hurt so much.

When I started having the curious pain in my jaw, then my feet, then my hands, it was completely terrifying. It just kept spreading—how far was it going to go? I was scared that whatever this was would get in my way, and I was not okay with that happening. My future was up on a pedestal I built myself. It was sitting up high with excitement, anticipation, and expectation. It was perfectly planned, and it would be flawless and remarkable. I was on a magic carpet ride soaring through the realm of possibilities, until the pains began. The carpet beneath me began to tremble and shake, jerking back and forth just daring me to make a move. I thought that some kind of diagnosis would make it stop, that it would return back to how it should have been. For a moment, hearing a diagnosis stilled carpet. But as it sank in, as I absorbed the information and tucked it away in my brain, as I discovered what the diagnosis really meant, the carpet fell from beneath my feet. It dropped away into oblivion. Free falling, and not in a good way. Helpless. Just helpless.

How could I be happy to be diagnosed with something that would make my life so miserable? Well, at least they know how to treat me. How could I accept what was sure to come? Well, at least I can prepare for it.

Two sides to every argument. Two sides to every coin. Two sides to a disease like mine.

I have this pair of wrist braces. They are plain, black velcro and shoelace, the metal supports are broken through in the palms of both, they are always full of lint, and they smell like a plaster cast someone got wet last week. To me, they are the most hideously beautiful pieces in my wardrobe. Two sides. They leave me awkward tan lines half way up my forearm, they are a pain to store in my purse, I have to remove them to eat, people constantly ask me what I did to injure both wrists at the same time, and I keep getting the velcro stuck on random fabrics. Two sides. Without them, I can’t type, text, or read a book without difficulty, I can barely lift a pound, any unexpected contact sends pain shooting through my wrist, and falling on them would surely cause them to break. These braces are in no way attractive to look at, but without them my life would be much more difficult. Sometimes when I get ready to leave the house I dread having to put them on—they are a very visual sign of my brokenness. Other times I can’t wait to get them on, and they remind me that I am being my own healer.  To me, losing the strength of my wrists is a tragedy. I have always been fond of my wrists. They were so shapely and quaint—I feel they made me look feminine and gentle. The left one is the worst. The once innocent curvature of the wrist is now ballooned and swollen everyday. I lost the daintiness months ago as the wrist expanded into an unflattering, inflated state. I’m a writer too—left-handed. Any time I find myself wanting to write the disease beneath my flesh screams at me until I put the pencil down, and put the brace back on. I always thought my wrists to be one of my best physical attributes, and now my being is void of their sweetness. Braces replace bracelets.

Most things about this disease I have little or no control over. After diagnosis, it continues to spread. Slowly it is taking over the joints in my body: a knee, an elbow, a shoulder, the other side of my jaw. I have no idea if it ever plans to stop, or if I have a lot more pain ahead of me. I hope that it will leave some part of me unmarred, but I am not holding my breath. I am fearful of the rampage of my disease, yet I need to retain some amount of hope to level insanity. I desperately want it to go away. To be healed. But at the same time I have to be thankful for the resources I have. A bittersweet experience.