Another flu, another cold, another stomach virus, and I wake up feeling physically perfect. Emotionally and mentally? I’m a hothouse of crossed and twisted wires – beeping and going off at all different points of my body. “Warning. Warning.”
No broken bones and no strains or sprains or tears or pulls. In fact, I’ve never even been to an emergency room or hospital, other than to give birth twice. No broken bones and no strains or sprains or tears or pulls, but I did walk into Urgent Care when Scarlet was eight-months-old to get two measly stitches on my ring finger above the ring. I lost a battle with an avocado. Otherwise, I’m not squeamish or prone to motion sickness. I can be dehydrated for days without symptoms.
When it comes to this body, the strength – the seemingly unbeatable strength – is only matched and met by one thing. The mind. The heart. And the dark and sinister places that have taken root and spread. Silent for years, or wrapping around and around and cutting off air supply and heart supply and and head supply. I can drink pineapple juice that expired eight years ago (it was an accident on Christmas Eve), and barely blink, but don’t ask me to let go of my kids at kindergarten drop-off – or ever, really – because I will drop to my knees. I will fall to my knees. This body can’t save me now. It doesn’t know how.
When it comes to this body, I know this body, and nothing you say is truer than my truth. I know that no dairy, gluten, sugar, fat can give even one tiny symptom, the way an emotional trigger can, but when those things all get together, it’s not pleasant. I know two sips into a cup of coffee when it’s not decaf, because it sets a course through my body quite like stress. And I know that a cup of coffee a day – the way I like it – makes me gain weight, but two bowls of ice cream a day don’t. And I also know not to eat two bowls of ice cream a day. I know that stress raises blood sugar and that pizza doesn’t.
By good cholesterol and low blood pressure. By another flu and cold and stomach virus passing me by, even after sharing drinks and sharing kisses and sharing being alive. And by being alive well past the last age my father ever got to be, when I thought it was written in stone in my body, the way it was in his. Inscribed. Signed, sealed, delivered. When it comes to this body, I’ll believe you when you tell me nothing is wrong. I can feel it in courses and rushes. Light and love and air and health. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have to take the time to rewrite the history I thought was served and certain.
This is me linking up, as one of my favorite things to do, with Finish The Sentence Friday. This week’s topic is “When it comes to this body…” (5 minute freewriting) And there’s still time to write yours. Come link up with your spin: HERE.