{"id":290,"date":"2017-07-07T15:43:26","date_gmt":"2017-07-07T22:43:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/livingwithhibm.com\/?p=290"},"modified":"2017-11-18T15:19:00","modified_gmt":"2017-11-18T23:19:00","slug":"muted-screams-of-summer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/livingwithhibm.com\/?p=290","title":{"rendered":"Muted Screams of Summer"},"content":{"rendered":"

Summer used to be one of my favorite seasons. Not just because it is kicked off by my summer solstice birthday, but because there has (historically) always been a carefreeness built into my summers- wearing sundresses and flip-flops, frolicking around at the pool or beach, traveling on summer vacations (my personal favorite). Throw in hours of sunshine and long lazy summer nights and there’s not much to not love.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Except when you live with HIBM. Because just as with pretty much everything else in life, HIBM has found a way to contaminate my love for summer. \u00a0All of the things I used to love about summer have now become triggers for me. The sources of those fun, easy, carefree feelings have been transformed into triggers for my own sadness, anxiety, fear, and anger.<\/p>\n

This summer we have been lucky enough to spend a few weekends away. For the first one, my husband and I went to Palm Springs for our anniversary, motivated by my desire to make it out to the famed integratron<\/a>.\u00a0I brought my sit down electric scooter because by now, there’s really no other way to travel without it, a fact I’ve mostly come to accept. Upon hotel check-in, we were delighted to hear they had upgraded us to a private room with a private balcony, so as to avoid being right off the noisy, boisterous family pool. (When we travel without our kids, we want to be without all<\/i> kids.) I felt excited and relieved. But because I am still not used to traveling with my increasingly disabled body, I didn’t ask until she was about to give us our keys if it was on the second floor. She excitedly said yes! Then I asked if there was an elevator. She said no. And that’s when I had to start investing the all too familiar emotional energy in evaluating the pros and cons of whether or not I could handle it. I really wanted that private room. I really wanted this to be a weekend truly away for us. I decided I could do it if there were railings. (Yes, my husband would have to schlep the scooter up and down the stairs, but it would be worth it.) \u00a0So I asked her. She went to inquire and came back with a no. That settled that. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I reminded myself how lucky I was to be in a nice hotel, blah blah blah. It was annoying, but I knew we’d get over it. And anyway, the main event was the following day.<\/p>\n

The next day, we drove through the Mojave Desert to get to the Integratron. I was so excited. As my disease continues to limit me physically, I find myself seeking out more and more novel experiences, especially in the spiritual realm.\u00a0This was one of them. I felt giddy when we arrived, staring out onto the giant geometric dome. But as we got closer,\u00a0I saw that access to the dome was actually on the second floor. \u00a0And not via a staircase with a railing,\u00a0but rather a steeply-angled ladder. Damn it. The anguish set in- a combination of foolishness for not having researched the accessibility of it and anger that I couldn’t seem to have just one non-HIBM adulterated experience. I was determined to make it up there. One of the owners took me over to the entrance ahead of the rest of the group to give me an opportunity to try to climb the ladder. She was gentle and patient. I finally made it up. And it was worth it. But I was acutely aware that given my current rate of progression, had I waited any longer to check it out, I wouldn’t have been able to make it up into that experience.\u00a0I held the gratitude for having been able to do it when I did, alongside the pain of knowing I probably wouldn’t \u00a0be able to do it again. \u00a0The constant process of having to hold both is emotionally exhausting, on top of an already physically exhausting reality.<\/p>\n

This past July 4th weekend, we took the boys to Legoland for three days. It’s their happy place. Rather than renting an electric scooter like I did last summer, I brought my own, which at least alleviated some of the bitterness of having to spend an extra 50 bucks a day. But there’s a different kind of bitterness (and underneath that, sadness and frankly sheer terror) that sets in when going to the same place exactly one year later when living with a progressively debilitating\u00a0disease. It strips me of any shred of denial that I am, in fact, getting weaker. It is a nasty reminder that no matter how many supplements I take, no matter how healthfully I eat, no matter how much physical therapy I do, I am getting worse. I feel powerless against it. I am trapped in this disease and traveling through it in one direction. The destination, which once seemed so far away I that could barely see it, is slowly coming clearer into view.<\/p>\n

Last year I got to enjoy the wave pool (among others activities) with my boys. I got to bob up-and-down with them and join in on their gleeful anticipation of the next wave. This year, I sat on my scooter in the scorching sun and watched them from a distance. The effort that would’ve been required of me to join in felt too much. I did my best to experience joy through theirs, though they were so far out, I could barely see them and my husband. \u00a0This year, I took my older son who’s obsessed with roller coasters up to the front of the line using my disability pass, and then watched him climb into a car by himself while I stayed back. If you’re someone who doesn’t enjoy roller coasters, maybe that sounds ideal to you. But for me, roller coasters were always one of my favorite thrills. I no longer have the neck strength to hold my head up safely on those jerky turns. I smiled at his squeals coming down, but inside I yearned for nothing more than to share the experience alongside him.<\/p>\n

One of the highlights of our hotel was the waterslide. As you might imagine,\u00a0I love water slides. On the second day, I\u00a0couldn’t stand it anymore, so I decided to go for it. My boys were thrilled. (A wonderful feeling and yet a painful reminder that my inability to participate physically in my boys’ lives likely takes more of a toll on them than I care to recognize.) I slowly and arduously climbed up each step to the top. I did it. \u00a0But the thrill of coming down was tainted by the fact that my head slammed into the slide from the G-force. I decided to sit the rest out. I looked around the pool and tried to convince myself that I could be happy doing what so many other moms were doing: sitting on a lounge chair, \u00a0reading a book, sipping a drink, maybe not even knowing where my kids were. But that’s not who I am. What may seem like a luxurious choice to someone else is for me an upsetting reminder that I no longer get to do what I want to do, when I want to do it.<\/p>\n

I am sick and tired of not having choices. I’m sick and tired of being forced to suppress the most basic, fundamental nature of who I am. I’m tired of being trapped in this body. \u00a0Have you ever had that horrible stress dream where you’re being threatened by something or someone and you try to scream, but your voice is muted? That’s how it feels, \u00a0as if my body’s scream is muted.<\/p>\n

\n

My spirit, my energy level, my excitability, my desire for adventure and play and spontaneity, even down to the sneakers I have to wear- none of these align easily with the body I have become forced to live inside. I can barely remember what it felt like to not have my body be in conflict with who I am. I want to believe that it must have felt so carefree, but in actuality, it probably wasn’t something I was ever even conscious of. \u00a0How liberating it must feel, to not be constantly emotionally\u00a0triggered by the awareness of\u00a0what you used to be able to do, what you currently aren’t able to do, and what you know you will likely never be to do.<\/p>\n

I look at Facebook photos of people’s summer vacations- mothers taking sons on solo trips abroad, families hiking to the tops of mountains in national parks,\u00a0couples indulging in exotic trips to hot springs in Iceland or exploring narrow, cobblestone\u00a0alleys of small towns in Italy. \u00a0All things I always thought I would do with my own family, all things I\u00a0\u00a0wish I could do, but can’t.<\/p>\n

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying people with disabilities can’t travel, of course. I’m saying there are endless restrictions on where we can go and what we get to experience. And between the logistics involved (figuring out what’s accessible and what’s not), the physical effort required, and the subsequent emotional sequelae, it takes a lot of the fun out of it. At least for me.<\/p>\n

I miss easygoing weekends away. I miss my pre-disease summers. Though I am grateful for having had 30 years of them, I wish I could have more. I’d even settle for just one day.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Summer used to be one of my favorite seasons. Not just because it is kicked off by my summer solstice birthday, but because there has (historically) always been a carefreeness built into my summers- wearing sundresses and flip-flops, frolicking around at the pool or beach, traveling on summer vacations (my personal favorite). Throw in hours<\/p>\n

Read More<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":435,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-290","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"aioseo_notices":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/livingwithhibm.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/integ.jpg?fit=730%2C350&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p5aYbC-4G","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":186,"url":"https:\/\/livingwithhibm.com\/?p=186","url_meta":{"origin":290,"position":0},"title":"Chapter 14: The 9.5 Year Phase","author":"admin","date":"July 31, 2015","format":false,"excerpt":"Wouldn't that be so nice? 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