Grieving the (Maybe Not So Little Things) Anew

After about nine years living with focal dystonia in my right hand, you think I would have gotten used to it. In many ways, I have. I accept, or at least am used to, my hand curling. Taking medication three times a day is routine. Oversalting my food to counteract the hypotensive effects of the medication is a regular practice. I always type holding a pen and often find pens lying around the house because I forgot I was holding one in order to straighten out my hand. But then there are times like my botox injection a few weeks ago when I realize anew the relative permanency (unless God should choose to supernaturally heal me) of my condition.

I work for days, sometimes weeks, up to my botox appointment to get everything possible done so that I can rest after my injections. I learned the hard way that doing housework spreads the botox, especially cooking and cleaning that involves repetitive movement. When the botox spreads, it not only fails to treat my condition, but makes my hand weak, so weak that I can't turn the key in an ignition, unscrew the gas cap on the car, or even clip my own fingernails. No fun, so I prep. I prep and freeze food. I do chores like a crazy women. I usually rush right up to my appointment, sliding in the door just when I am due. I liken it it to the nesting pregnant women do before they give birth, only I am not giving birth. I am receiving toxins into my body to release my muscles and prevent them cramping so hard it feels like I have wires pulling my fingers back into my skin.

I experienced a few moments of mental relief after getting my botox injections this time, but when I went to schedule my next appointment, I felt grief. I grieved the fact that I will have to go through this cycle all over again. I grieved that I had to schedule this appointment around a planned visit to a friend, as that visit requires toting my luggage around, and would therefore not be appropriate after botox, when my arm was supposed to rest. I grieved that this botox treatment cycle will be my life for the rest of my life, unless God heals me.

In some respects, these are little things. Focal dystonia is not a terminal condition. It's not cancer. I shouldn't die of it. While I cannot do repetitive motions for three days after botox, I can walk. I can run. Botox doesn't make me sick or ill overall (as do chemo and other such treatments). Other than a few tiny injection pricks and ongoing muscle atrophy from the injections, my arm does not look much different. My condition is chronic, though, and that brings with it some grief. Maybe that grief is more about the little than the big things, but it's still grief, and I am still needing to work through it. Maybe this is part of my sanctification process. Maybe this is part of my journey in practicing self-acceptance and self-compassion. Whatever it is, may the Lord help me through it, because only in and through him are all things possible.