Category : Stories

Sub Category : Drama

Rheumatoid Arthritis

Maturity doesn't mean age. It means sensitivity, manners and how you react.

Mother, I remember the very first time you felt pain. It started in your wrist. You were 32years old. The same age as I am now. We were on holiday and you complained about the pain in your wrist.

You saw the doctor, they did tests.
You found out that you had Rheumatoid Arthritis.

I was too young then to really understand what having this illness meant.
It's a crippling illness.
Yet you defied the odds.

You're now in your fifties, still as beautiful and as vibrant as ever.
The only giveaway to your illness is the crooked fingers on your still so elegant hands.
You were my age when you were diagnosed.
I never suffered a single day because of your illness.
You hid it so well.
I was too selfish to actually stop, observe and appreciate all the sacrifices, false smiles, and award winning acting skills that you performed each and every day.
You never showed pain, sadness, depression.
I never saw you cry.
You played the part of perfection so well, it eluded me to your suffering, your sadness, your constant pain, your constant battle.

I had the best mother in the world.
You cooked food fit for a king each and everyday. Your house was always spotlessly clean.
Your children were always looked after, cared for, and supported.

I never felt neglect in your presence.
I was always loved by you... 

Yet, I continued to be selfish, never taking the time to notice how much you suffered day after day.
Your health deteriorated, I could see that, but still you carried on, always a smile on your face.
And still I chose to live in the dark.
Too afraid to really understand, too afraid to ask, too afraid to try and empathize with you... 

To empathize means to understand from a different perspective, to literally put oneself in the other persons shoes.
I was a coward.
I took the easy way out.
I refused to empathize, because I was petrified of putting myself in your shoes.
I was so scared that your illness would then become all too real.
And I couldn't bear to acknowledge the harsh reality of it.

I wasn't ready to accept it.
I wasn't ready to handle the understanding that would come with knowing.

So I chose to live in ignorance of your suffering, my cowardice shaming me to the point where I completely shut it out.
I pretended that you were okay most of the time. 

Then came the days that even I couldn't deny.
The days you'd be confined to bed, your raging illness gone out of control.
Even a glass became too heavy for your delicate fingers to hold and so you'd end up drinking from a straw.
Your hands and wrists constantly covered in bandages day after day.
The restless, sleepless nights you'd endure, because even the very act of sleep was painful. 

I'd notice how careful you were before even sitting on a chair because once you're seated, the way very act of getting up would be a workout. 
The amount of concentration and mental preparation that encompassed that simple action of getting up would be a marathon for you. 
Finally when you did manage to get up from that chair, the pain etched in every crevice and line of your face was undeniable. 
I take for granted that sitting on a chair and getting up is as easy as breathing. 
Yet you endured, never complaining, never angry. 

I'd see the undeniable pain, depression and suffering that encompassed those periods but I chose ignorance by delving into my petty, selfish life with it's petty, selfish drama's.

I didn't know how to be understanding.
I didn't know how to be empathetic.
I didn't know how to be there for you.
And after all these years, I'm still a coward.
I still choose ignorance.
I'm purposely blinded to the obvious truth.
I pretend that you're always fine.
I've just never been able to be there for you the way you needed me to.

How can I be strong for a woman who's so fiercely independent.
You hate people fawning over you.
You refuse help because you want to prove you can do it all on your own.
And you've taken care of yourself all these years, even with this illness like it was some walk in the park.

I'm awed by your courage, your strength, your bravery.
Most importantly, I'm completely mesmerized by your determination and your stubborn refusal to give up.
I can only begin to imagine the suffering you've endured all these years, both mentally and physically.
You're a miracle mother...

Thank you for being my mother...

I wish I'd been a better daughter...
I wish I'd made an effort to understand what you were going through...
I wish I'd been there for you more often...
I wish I'd taken the time to really understand this disease...
I wish I'd made more time to try and ease your difficult days...

Please forgive my selfishness...
Please know that I love you for being you...
Please know that in my eyes...You were never less than perfect...
Please know in my eyes... 
You're flawless...