Category Archives: social anxiety

When People Say, “You Don’t Look Sick.”

Every person living with a seemingly invisible illness has lived this scenario. Maybe you’re speaking to a distant family member when it happens. Perhaps you run into a former classmate or friend from work. It could be the sweet lady who sits in front of you in church. Regardless, we’ve all been in those situations where someone says, “You don’t look sick.” It’s a double-edged sword of sorts. On the one hand, this person thinks they’re paying you a compliment. On the other, it only adds to the invalidation we often feel. So, let me make it clear to all those who aren’t living with chronic illness. I think I can safely speak on behalf of all those with invisible illnesses when I say- Please, for the love of all that is good and kind and understanding in this world, stop saying we don’t look sick. It just isn’t conveying the nicety that you’re trying to insinuate.

For instance, if I “look healthy,” there’s been some serious effort that has gone into that façade. I begin preparing to go into public hours before I go. I know there will be people who try to diagnose my current situation based on how I look that day. I save myself effort and aggravation if I try to look like everyone else. This has nothing to do with make up or wardrobe choice- it has everything to do with waking up in time for my medicine to start working before I go in public. It is about me achieving a manageable blood pressure and often using enough heat or ice to make my joints feel functional.

Let me try to explain. I look mostly healthy. Don’t get me wrong- I’m exceedingly aware of all the ways illness keeps me from measuring up to society’s standard of health. However, I look like every other thirty something for the most part. This means when I see doctors I often feel like I don’t meet the bar for what is “sick enough” for them. I typically feel that my smile or laugh or even pleasant disposition (let’s be honest, that comes and goes) inhibits me from getting the care I need. Quality of life is not easily quantified, so I often feel like it is being determined at face value rather than by my actual experience. It’s frustrating. So, when you tell me I “don’t look sick” you’re listing another problem that keeps me from receiving care- rather than giving me a compliment. I completely understand that isn’t your goal; however, I would be lying if I pretended that I perceive that phrase as some sort of compliment.

If I dig into that phrase a little deeper, I’m able to understand why it strikes me as hurtful so quickly. When we say that someone does not look sick, we are essentially telling that person he/she has no obvious disability. This means as my illness progresses, and I inevitably begin using a walker or wheelchair, I will start meeting society’s standard of looking sick. I won’t necessarily be any sicker than I am right now. However, as my mobility changes, I will meet the definition others expect me to fit to be “sick enough.”

Please, understand that I am not one to nitpick over semantics. If you say something to me with the best of intentions, I will do my best to perceive it as you intended. I am not trying to make anyone hyper-aware of their language. However, in this world where I believe all decent people are called to learn how to constantly be better and to make their language as inoffensive as possible, I want to challenge you to say something different. In all reality, it’s not necessary to comment on how anyone looks anyway. Try asking someone how things are going- and genuinely wait for a response. Maybe tell someone that you are glad to see them- rather than invalidating their illness, you are letting that person know you value your time with them. I feel like all of us are above commenting on someone’s physical appearance.

Oh yeah, and if you make a mistake and accidentally tell someone they “don’t look sick,” no worries. All you must do is add some empathy. Follow up with “but I understand that you really don’t feel well.” See? That’s all it takes. I promise- I will always appreciate your empathy and understanding.

Peace, love, and health, friends.

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Diagnosis: Christmas Brain

Y’all, it’s hit. I officially have a full-blown case of Christmas brain over here, and it’s not pretty. I’ll be honest, I’m making Clark Griswald look like a laid back guy in comparison. Here’s the thing- I thought I was prepared for Christmas. Two and half weeks ago, I would have told you I was right on pace to have everything finished early. Nope. Just nope.
In case you’re wondering what on earth “Christmas Brain” is, you’re friendly, neighborhood health blogger is here to give you a full symptom list. Please be aware that symptoms exist on a spectrum, and you may feel these symptoms to a greater or lesser degree than others with Christmas Brain. Also, I’m fairly certain that “Christmas Brain” can be experienced by a wide range of people- not limited to those who celebrate Christmas (See also, Hanukah Brain, Kwanzaa Brain, etc.).

“Famnesia”
Those presenting with Famnesia are likely to completely forget the friends and family closest to them regarding gift exchange. For example, one sufferer of “famnesia” has been known to wake up one morning and suddenly realize she’s married and her husband probably expects a Christmas gift. Famnesia may occur regarding one, several, or all friends and family. Sufferers typically have bouts of regaining memory- when their friends/family show up with a gift.

“Click-itis”
Others with Christmas brain may notice pain or discomfort in their “buying finger”- or the finger(s) used to click “Add to cart” on Amazon Prime. Click-itis often resolves when the sufferer finishes their holiday shopping; however, it is likely to resume when cases of Famnesia result in last minute gift giving needs.

Lack of Flying Candy Canes
Now, this particular symptom is often described using other (perhaps more colorful) wording. However, some sufferers have been known to say, “I do not give one Flying Candy Cane whether these gifts have bows on them or not.” When there is an overall lack of Flying Candy Canes, one may find themselves wearing yesterday’s socks, using an obscene amount of dry shampoo, and feeding one’s family from Papa John’s. (Because, at this point I don’t give one Flying Candy Cane about proper nutrition.)

Sugar/ Caffeine Cravings
Many sufferers of Christmas Brain notice they’re existing on little more than Christmas cookies and coffee (with frosted sugar cookie flavored creamer). When other symptoms hit their peak, sufferers will often self-medicate with more coffee, Christmas treats, and the occasional 5 gallon drum of popcorn. While these cravings offer little sustenance to help alleviate symptoms, sufferers are often incapable of and/ or unwilling to do anything other than indulge these cravings.

Impossible Expectations
Sufferers will often imagine themselves making homemade Christmas candy, assembling a 3-story gingerbread house, caroling with the neighborhood children, ending world hunger, and achieving world peace (and a puppy for everyone). These are illusions. The sufferer will do none of these things. He/she may babble incoherently for days regarding accomplishing these tasks. Caregivers should be aware that while the Christmas Brain sufferer is making plans to do these things, he/she will not make it around to them. Do not buy ingredients, scarves, or puppies in preparation.

This (quite tongue-in-cheek) list is not exhaustive, but it certainly covers a number of the symptoms felt by this exhausted elf. I love Christmas, and I am looking forward to spending time with the people I love most in this world. I also know (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that none of them expect the level of perfection that I tend to put on myself. However, the Christmas Brain struggle is real, and I’m secretly looking forward to December 26- the magical day when everything is half price, and I’m way too tired of shopping to care.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year, you Cotton-headed Ninny Muggins!

May our symptoms resolve by 2018.

Peace, love, and health.

 

Overcoming the Fear . . . of New Places

I’ve talked a lot about how chronic illness has changed me. It’s changed everything from my physical appearance to my patience. One thing that continues to surprise me, however, is how much more nervous I am about new experiences now. There’s just so much that could go wrong. It may not- it typically doesn’t go quite as wrong as I imagine it will- but there’s always the very real possibility.
Let me explain using a real-life example from today.
Joe and I decided to visit a church where some local friends attend. Now, before this whole chronic illness and rapidly deteriorating joint situation began, I would have never thought twice about visiting a church. However, I’m a hot mess on any normal day of the week. Add to my normal hot mess having to dress like a real adult (you know, something that isn’t a Disney tshirt and athletic shorts), having to be ready by a certain time, and actually leaving the house before noon (I don’t really get a functional blood pressure until later in the day), and I’m an accident looking for a place to happen.
Today, while walking up the ramp into church (Shout out for an accessible entryway!), my knee quit doing the whole “knee thing.” I crashed into the side of the church to keep from falling. Joe, who is totally used to such shenanigans responded with, “You okay, Margaret?” I, of course, am now convinced the entire congregation thinks I came to church drunk and my name is Margaret. The second faux pas is way worse though. Today was Lord’s Supper/ Communion day at the church. It’s a beautiful service that I’m always humbled to participate in, but leave it to me to turn it into a debacle. As the deacons were passing out the communion wafers, they motioned for me to pass the plate to Joe on my left. Cool . . . except holding anything is complicated with EDS. I overestimated how hard I needed to hold onto the plate, my hand jerked awkwardly, and I spilled the symbolic Body of Christ on the floor in front of the back pew. Joe and I tried to clean it up- but those little wafers fall apart like chalk. And, you guys, it was just bad.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Church was great. No one asked me to leave- or even to stay behind and vacuum under my pew. All in all, I’ll call the day a success. However, that story brings me to this point- taking a chronic illness into public is a bit like taking a rambunctious toddler out among non-toddler humans. You have no clue how it’s going to behave. Yes, we all have socially awkward moments, and today’s mistakes could have happened to an able-bodied person, as well. However, the fact remains that the combination of chronic illness and me has turned me into a one woman wrecking crew.
There was a time when today’s events would have humiliated me. I would have told Joe I was never going back to that church again. However, at this point, I’ve accepted that these things just seem to happen to me. My body is unpredictable, and I doubt that’s going to get better with time. Here are a few things I remind myself to keep from hiding under my bed when social interaction turns into social embarrassment.
I’m not a celebrity.
I’m a somewhat normal 32-year-old woman living in Campbellsville, KY. Paparazzi could not possibly be less interested in me. I’ll never be featured on the cover of US Weekly (Thank goodness.). So, why on earth, do I think that anyone is enormously preoccupied with how I act? You see, in my mind, everything I do is amplified times a million, and I’m convinced the whole world is offended by me. I spend serious time stressing over my inability to sit and stand at the appropriate times during church. I just know that someone is hurt by my seeming irreverence. The truth? Most people probably don’t notice, and those that do are probably more worried about whether anyone is noticing that they’re singing off key or that their breath smells funky. I’m really not that big of a deal.
New experiences are worth the risk.
Today I participated in a beautiful church service. I met new people and visited with others I already knew. I even got a sucker after the children’s service. (I’m not sure how the minister knew I would really enjoy a sucker, and I’m seriously hoping I wasn’t staring at the candy box as though I’d never seen such delicacies before.) The experience of worshiping with other believers, sitting beside my husband during church, and seeing welcoming smiles on the faces of friends and strangers far outweighs any embarrassment I felt. I have yet to have an embarrassing public experience where I felt that my embarrassment wasn’t worth it to do something fun or new (although there have been a couple close calls).
People are generally great.
We hear a lot of stories about the mistreatment of those with invisible disabilities. I get it. There are people in this world who are jerk faces. However, for the most part, people are good. The deacon whose plate of communion wafers I threw in the floor? He chuckled good-naturedly and waved his hand as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.” The people sitting around me who noticed that I didn’t stand for all the opening music? They smiled and nodded and shook my hand when it was the time to do so.
The moral of the story? I’m a mess. That’s okay. People are cool. Keep taking risks- and learn to laugh at your failures along the way.

Peace, love, and health, friends.

Click here to endorse me for WEGO Health’s Patient Leader award, please.

I’m Pretty Sure You Want This Book.

This (link at the bottom) is my book. Okay, technically, it’s Joe’s book too, because he did a lot of work on it. But since I’m the person with the chronic illness and this is a book about chronic illness- well, I’m a little emotionally attached. Just in case you’re thinking you don’t need this book or don’t especially want it, humor me while I make my case.

So, here are the “Crazy, Chronic Reasons Why You (might) Want to Read This Book.”

  1. It’s a beautiful love story. Okay, it’s not exactly a beautiful love story. As a matter of fact, I mention bodily functions that are neither beautiful nor lovely a couple times. However, Joe and I wrote this together. He literally saw my desire to write a book and not only encouraged it- he did a lot of the work. We talked through every chapter together before I wrote it. He physically typed a lot of the book, because my crazy, dislocating hands wouldn’t allow me. We have called ourselves #TeamEarly from the beginning, and this collaboration showcases exactly why. We work together. We laugh together- and, when necessary, we cry together. So, while a book instructing you with how to cope with very public and very projectile vomit isn’t exactly romantic, the love and cooperation that went into each page certainly is.
  2. It’s likely to boost your confidence. Do you want to know why it will boost your confidence? Because as you read through this book and experience our raw honesty, there will be times when you’ll think, “I would never be dumb enough to get myself in that situation.” See? You’ll feel smarter. Okay, seriously, this book talks about embarrassing symptoms that so many of us face- brain fog, incontinence, mobility struggles, etc. Let’s be honest- I’m about as graceful as an elephant changing underpants. I have a long history of blunders to share. I will give you tips to saving face as much as possible when your body decides to be a jerk in the least convenient of places. Personally, I always feel more confident when I have a contingency plan.
  3. People seem to actually like the book. You guys, I have reviews, and they’re not bad. They’re actually, well, great! Even more impressively, to the best of my knowledge I am not related (by blood nor marriage) to anyone who has reviewed my book. You never know when you write something if it will reach your audience in the way you hope. There’s a chance that Joe and I have been drafting and typing our little hearts out on a project that stinks. But . . . it’s beginning to look like it doesn’t. I actually believe we may have accurately portrayed this life in a way that others can relate.
  4. It will make you cool. Okay, there are many words that could describe me, and “cool” will never be one of them. I will never listen to the right music or understand pop culture references. However, illness has made me more sensitive to the needs of my chronically ill/ disabled friends. We have done our best to convey to significant others, caregivers, friends, congregations, and ‘that lady from WalMart’ how to be aware of the needs of others. And, seriously, what’s cooler than compassion? Am I right?
  5. I will appreciate your support forever. Everyone isn’t in a place where they can buy a book. I understand that completely. Please know that every word of encouragement, like, and share mean the world to me. My Crazy, Chronic Life blog audience was the driving force behind this book, and your love and encouragement help me keep my head above water on the hardest days.

Friends, each of you have encouraged Joe and I throughout this process, and we truly appreciate it. (I considered telling everyone that to show our gratitude Joe would be available to sing at the wedding of anyone who buys our book. Strangely, he didn’t consent to that.) So, one more time for the people in the back- my book link is below. Try an excerpt. See if it’s for you- or if it might help someone you know.

Peace, love, and health to each of you.

Sorry, not sorry. Social media is my bestie.

My husband is the ultimate extrovert. Put him in a crowded room and he’ll feed off the energy for days. Me? Well, the very thought of a crowded concert or even a potluck makes me cringe. I love people, but I’m not a person who can work a room. It’s unsettling for me. Add to that the constant fear of brain fog moments, health issues, and general social anxiety, and I’m a hot mess in a crowded room.

This seems to be the lament of many of my chronic illness friends. It’s not that we don’t like people, but rather that being around people is complicated. When you feel bad it’s hard to have the ambition for social engagements. Chronic pain makes it hard to concentrate on the conversation you’re having. And, to be honest, just the general lack of understanding the public has for my (and many others’) invisible illness is unsettling.

Basically, I’m too dang awkward to be in public. Just this morning at church a woman a couple pews in front of me turned around to shake my hand. She was far enough in front of me that she had to lean over the pew between us and still couldn’t reach me. I was sitting while everyone else was standing, because my heart was doing the cha-cha in my chest. In an effort to act like I had decent social skills, I stood up to lean toward her- then stumbled and grabbed the edge of the pew for balance. Then I burst out with a barely intelligible line- “I’m sorry. I don’t stand good.” WHAT?!? Of all the possible things I could have said, why did I say that? Seriously, there’s never an excuse for bad grammar. I should be kept in a cage.

However, on Facebook or Instagram, I’m a completely functional adult. Given the time to think about what I’m saying before I say it, I make sense, and I’m typically grammatically correct. (Full disclosure- I still rely on autocorrect for spelling.) With iPhone edits and social media filters, I’m way more cute and graceful. I need social media to be a normal person. I realize that you’re probably thinking, “You don’t have to be perfect. You want to make friends based on who you are- not a contrived online profile.” I agree with you. However, when illness turns your body into something you don’t even recognize anymore, I think it’s fair to find your confidence for entering the public realm wherever you can find it- even if it’s in the unrealistic world of social media. It’s helped me find who I am again, so I thought I’d share it’s virtues with you.

  1. I’ve made friends. It’s true. When I have exciting news, one of the first places I want to share my news is one of my chronic illness support groups. You see, at one point I had work friends, but the disabled life doesn’t exactly afford many of those. I met people for lunch and coffee, but that’s a little harder to do now. There are weeks that go by, and I don’t speak to any humans in person other than Joe and the lady who gives my allergy shots. However, my online friends are always around, and if they’re not they will be eventually. I’ve had the opportunity to meet people who live a life very similar to mine. I can share victories that don’t seem like victories to my healthier friends. My chronic illness friends understand when I post, “Guess who took a shower, fixed their hair, went to lunch, and unloaded the dishwasher today? This girl!” Normal people would probably not realize this is a huge achievement. My chronic illness friends on social media understand that this is a big day!
  2. I’ve found a way to be a part of something that matters.  As my health has changed, I’ve been less capable of doing a lot of the things I used to do. I can’t volunteer to tutor students or teach Sunday school. My body isn’t very reliable. For a while, I felt like I no longer had a purpose or a way to contribute to the good in the world. However, I learned that the social media world is filled with lonely and isolated people- like me. I can’t be there physically, but I can listen. I can offer prayers and hope and encouragement. Online support groups have been a fantastic outlet and a great way to try helping others rather than focusing on my own problems.
  3. Social media has an off switch (and it’s available 24/7 too!). If I have a migraine or a particularly symptomatic day, I have the option of not looking at social media. Instead of being online when I feel sick and grumpy, I can make the choice to stay away. Of course, you can make that same decision in real life, but it’s more difficult. Real life people involve commitments and explanations. Online interaction happens when it happens. There’s always someone there when you’re ready.

Is social media the perfect answer to all social interaction? Of course, not. It’s important to make friends who can actually be there physically when you need someone. However, if you can’t handle all that yet, social media is an awesome place to start. I’m unapologetically in love with Facebook and Instagram. (Twitter is just not my jam.) Does that mean that I’m one of those people that’s tied to their phone screen a lot of the time? Yes, but it’s only taking away from my napping life or doctor’s office waiting time. I’m okay with that. This life is difficult enough, and if an online support group, online friends, or anything else makes life easier for you- I say do it. Social media can be your bestie too. She’s big enough for all of us, and I promise not to be jealous.

 

Peace, love, and health, friends.

Taking a Chronic Illness to the Gym- the loftiest of endeavors

I hadn’t been to the gym in a while until today. A few weeks ago my body went all “Let’s throw a fit and make Tiffany black out and have chest pain,” so it slowed down my work out flow to say the least. Today I made it back. I’m doing a very amended work out (one hour on the recumbent bike with no resistance- yeah, I know. I’m a beast.), but I’m trying. I figure as long as I’m still trying, Joe isn’t married to a potato, and that’s a positive thing. (I think- I mean the guy really likes potatoes). Since it was my first day back, I decided to record my thoughts- not because they were especially brilliant, but because I knew my crazy, chronic family could relate.

Sitting in the car- I’m not going in. Everyone looks skinny and healthy. Holy moly, that girl is lifting some serious weight. (I am too, but only when I get myself out of the car . . .) Is the whole stinkin town training for a marathon I know nothing about? Do I have any chips in my car? That seems like a better decision at this point.

Walking in the gym- Don’t let the man who works here notice when I scan my check-in card that I haven’t been here in close to a month. Dang it. He totally knows. He said, “It’s nice to see you.” What he’s really saying is, “It’s nice how you drug your lazy self back in here.” (Actually, no. He’s so nice that he would never say such a thing, but the guilt is real.)

Beginning the work out- Where do I start? What is everyone else doing? Oh, yeah, I can’t do that. Abs. I can work on abs. I think somewhere along the way a doctor told me that working on core stability would help my symptoms- or maybe I heard that on an infomercial. Sigh. I have no clue what I’m doing. The ab machine looks least likely to dislocate something, so I’ll do that.

The actual work out- Ouch. Ouch. Should working abs make your lower back feel like it’s going to split open? Is that normal? It’s probably normal. No one else is crying. I’m not going to cry either. Is that a tear? Nope! Just sweat! #killingit A man just asked me if he could work through. What does that even mean? Is he asking if he can work through his problems? I certainly hope he can. Should I offer to pray for him? This gym thing totally confuses me.

I’m moving on to the recumbent bike. It’s totally not made for the under 5 foot crowd, but if I pedal with my tip toes it’ll work. Holy cow. Is that girl still lifting weight? There’s no way she weighs as much as the weight she’s lifting. I must find out her secret. Oh wait, her secret is probably joints that don’t dislocate from simple tasks. Maybe I’ll ask her about that. I won’t. That would break my cardinal rule of gym attendance- don’t speak or make eye contact. They’ll never realize what a hot mess I am if I just don’t speak.

How long have I been on this bike? I’m only pedaling an hour. Darn it. It’s been 6 minutes. Why doesn’t time go by this slowly when I’m drinking coffee and binge watching One Tree Hill? Oh yeah! I can watch OTH while I pedal. No, I can’t. Someone is sitting next to me talking loudly. He’s talking about how nice it would be to be 30 again. Maybe so, dude, but 31 is a struggle right now.

The end! The beautiful end! I made it! I survived an entire hour, and I only stopped once to move a kneecap back into place. (Tricky little booger) I didn’t black out, double over in chest pain, or have any dislocations that I couldn’t handle on my own. YES!!

It can’t be a coincidence that my gym is located next to a Sonic. Time for a milk shake!

Peace, love, and health, friends.

Chronic Christmas Craziness and Other Communicable Diseases

Confession time, friends. Yesterday, I had a full Clark Griswald-esque Christmas meltdown. You know that scene from the movie when he finds out his long awaited Christmas bonus is nothing more than a membership to a jam of the month club? (Which is a pretty dang cool gift, if you ask me.) He proceeds to totally have a total freak out of epic proportions . . . yeah, that was me. Now, before you label me a Scrooge and believe that I need to be visited by some of Charles Dickens’ ghosts, let me explain.

Holidays are tough for the chronically ill- really tough. For me, I feel like holiday time exposes all my flaws. The rest of the year I can hide that my house isn’t always neat and organized. I can keep you from noticing that I don’t have the energy to wash my hair (or even shower sometimes) more than every other day. My cooking short cuts (I’ve got to make a blog about that soon!) can fly under the radar. But at Christmastime, you’re going to see these things. When I sit around with family members chatting about the past year, you’re going to notice that I start lying down or leaning over- because for some reason I can’t sit up for long without my ribs moving out of place. You’re going to see that my Christmas cooking came from Kroger (grocery store, non-US, friends!). And, if you look closely, you might even notice that Joe has to open bottles and cans for me, because my hands won’t cooperate lately.

Although these are all parts of my daily reality, Christmas makes me feel much more exposed. Don’t get me wrong- my family is fantastic. I can’t think of a single member that would tease me (well, they might good-naturedly tease me- but NEVER hurtfully) for the things I cannot do. I’m very blessed to have a group of people who love me and do not think less of me when I just CAN’T do something. The problem lies in that I hate looking pathetic. I hate looking like that hot mess that just can’t get it together. There’s nothing more dehumanizing than being pitied.

So, anyway, back to last night’s meltdown- here’s how it went down. I was trying to cook real food- things that didn’t come pre-made from Kroger. In the process, I cut my finger, dislocated my shoulder and a finger, dropped essentially everything I touched, and somehow my blender full of boiling strawberry puree exploded. (FYI- If you’re covered in boiling hot strawberry puree and you yell for your spouse to come help you, FIRST explain to him that the red super-mess is NOT blood. The poor guy was preparing to apply pressure!) Somewhere during all of this, in a moment of panic (and chest pain that’s been haunting me for a couple days) I sat down on the kitchen floor and wailed, “I think I need to CRYYYYYY!!”

Poor Joe. He’s been through these meltdowns enough to know the protocol. He brought me a chair and a Cranberry Sprite Zero (yum!). He reminded me that everything that we were preparing for was fun- not something to freak out over. He even reminded me that we are celebrating with people that we love (and even like) who accept us exactly the way we are. He’s right. I just got caught up in the craziness of wanting everything to be perfect.

Here’s the truth. I will never have a Pinterest-perfect Christmas. My Christmas cards will be store bought, and my handwriting will probably be illegible after the first few. My gifts will always come from whichever store looks the least crowded- or better yet, Amazon. I can’t remember to buy things like bows for gift boxes or name tags. Joe did the wrapping- it’s not exactly his greatest gift in life. The gifts we bring are lumpy; the paper is ripped and patched, and the recipients’ names are written on the side with Sharpie. To be honest, Im not even sure if I put the correct name on gifts. So it’s possible there will be a gift shuffle at the end because I have given my brother the Princess castle intended for my 2 year old niece.

But . . . post-Griswald-esque meltdown, I’ve decided I’m okay with the imperfections. I may not feel fantastic sometimes; I’ll excuse myself and rest. I may not be able to get food on the table on time (you know, that food I just have to re-heat because I ordered it from Kroger), but we can just eat later. I might lie down while I visit with my family; I’m sure they’ve seen me do stranger things. I’m going to relax as best I can and enjoy this crazy, chronic Christmas.

So, um, could all of you remind me of this over the next few days?

Merry Christmas, chronic illness family. May your heart be filled with the hope and joy of this very special (and sometimes crazy) season.

Peace, love, and health friends.