I was in college and simultaneously trying to earn my living when my mom was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.
My dad had just retired and he got busy building our house on the one hand and keeping house on the other. Except for cooking occasionally and doing the laundry, I didn’t contribute much to alleviating my mom’s discomfort at all. I couldn’t. I was in college by day and having a blast training employees of MNCs at night. It was an incredibly hectic life.
I simply couldn’t comprehend mom’s pain. Except for telling her not to stress, I remember doing little else.
And today, mom is a constant source of support. From ensuring I eat right to actually helping me wear my clothes, she does pretty much everything to help me forget the pain. And I worry that seeing me in so much pain might trigger a flare in her condition again. So I try to be as cheerful as I can. But it is a losing battle. Especially when you don’t know how you actually will end up feeling from one day to the next.
Today is a good day. I’m at work doing all those things I like doing on a work-day.
Yesterday was a bitch. My fingers were swollen to the size of thick gherkins, and the pain indescribable. Actually, let me try and describe the pain. Imagine a layer of pins and needles constantly poking you under your skin. Now imagine 24 hours of such pain. Your skin will rupture, bleed, feel hot and burn. Eventually, the pain will dull your senses till all it is, is a dull, sharp, stinging, throbbing heat all over your joints. (If you think that’s an oxymoron, then you don’t know the pain, so shut up.) Now that’s rheumatic pain. It throbs and occasionally stings. And you simply cannot move your joints or even parts of your body without feeling as if it will all tear and fall apart. And prove to be more painful than it already is.
And then you have people in the same frame of mind I was when my mom was sick, telling me, “You will be fine. Don’t stress about anything.”
And I wonder why karma is always in such a hurry to bite me in the ass.
And if it is like that, does it please work the other way as well? Will those who’ve generously contributed to making my life hell get sucker-punched soon? Will I at least get a frigging apology sometime?
Ssshhh… Bhumika, don’t stress. don’t think. It will be fine. You will be fine.
P. S. or Bhumika finally explains why pain is a constant guest at the boudoir:
Blogging about pain and disease is suddenly fashionable thanks to ill celebrities, they tell me.
Blogging about pain besides making me fashionable will also ensure I have many fans, they tell me.
Blogging about your trauma helps others facing the same trauma, they tell me.
Blogging about my pain will make me less harmful to myself, they tell me. (But I can still kill myself when the pain comes two days in a row.)
Blogging about my pain is cathartic, they tell me. (I’m yet to feel any catharsis.)
Bhumika’s epiphanies or Bhumika’s karmic realisations that turn chameleons:
Bhumika should ideally blog about they/them and not bug everyone with so much grief.
The only fans and supporters Bhumika will have are the stalkers and the let’s-set-fire-to-our-idol-and-watch-the-fun-kinds.
Bhumika really doesn’t give a fuck about helping others not unless they are helping her in someway at least. What is the point of being bloody buggering sick if you have to do everything?
Bhumika is not a nice person; even if Bhumika’s mom is.
(Gopics, this is for you to help you write the biography in later years) You can’t have a six pack and hope to have a six pack.