Some people dream of a beachfront getaway, a cold beer on a summer day while boating on a lake, or worse, Arizona in the spring—any of these choices as long as “it is not too hot.” Not me. Give me 90-100 degrees twenty-four hours, seven days a week, and make it permanent all year while you are at it. Warm weather is good for my body and best for my hands.
My love affair with sweaters began over a decade ago when my body and I no longer found each other attractive. Our love ended, leaving us wanting different things. My body did not give me what I needed, so I had to look elsewhere. Isn’t that what affairs are for? A temporary solution for a permanent problem. Wearing sweaters instead of taking the time to treat my condition medically seemed like the perfect solution.
Systemic Sclerosis was the third party that inserted itself into the private relationship between my body and me. I find that very interesting. My initial thoughts about our third party were too shameful to put on paper; I am not ready to disclose how I took my unhappiness with a disease out on my body. Punishment was not the answer, but neither was pity.
My hands are the bravest part of my body. They took on the disease head-on and without thinking twice. Other body parts are not as affected, at least not for now. I have faith that my hands will continue to be on the frontlines fighting a nasty disease, which I cannot believe I am about to say has brought many gifts.
Raynaud’s disease came as a secondary condition affecting my hands and feet; it is classified as a temporary interruption of blood flow to the extremities. Forgive me, but this does not feel freaking temporary. Anything I touch that is not burning creates a flare. Historically, shame would take over when my hands would turn white. I am already pale. How much whiter can I go? Trust me, my hands can look like they belong on a corpse.
In my life, shame equals hiding or staying quiet. At least up until six years ago, when Systemic Sclerosis and I finally became friends, I couldn’t hide from my own body any longer. Instead, I chose to embrace it and stand up for it. It needed support. The same hands that I was so ashamed to show are the same hands that are now eager to sign a book for YOU, the reader.
Some people ask questions; others do not. I embrace both. These same hands have never let me down and stepped up to the plate to type or handwrite thoughts, feelings, or emotions to be compiled in books. They subjected themselves to a lot of work with little or no return.
They never complained about feeling unwell or not being warm enough; they only asked for love, care, and understanding. But most importantly, they did not want to feel like an embarrassment to me. They were eager to be part of my life and to be accepted just as they were. I did just that.
Acceptance. This is just one of the many gifts an illness can bring.
