Tuesday Tea and Tears

I had a meltdown today.

The morning was a pretty normal one. My spouse was rushing around, getting ready for work, doing all his normal morning things, and I? I was doing a fair-to-middling impression of being a normal morning thing. Even on good days, I feel a moderate amount of inflammation in my body, and it's always in peak form in the morning. On top of that, I'm old. They might say "60 is the new 40," but my body will never believe them.

I'll also mention here that we (my spouse, mostly) are caretakers for my soon-to-be-98 year old father-in-law, who is largely bedbound. That means that part of our normal morning routine is ensuring he has his breakfast, his morning tea and juice, his newspaper, and some conversation to start the day.

On this particular day, I got up, put some clothes on, bent down to grab the dog bowls because they were doing their morning breakfast dance, hunted down my coffee mug, and went into the kitchen, where I proceeded to make coffee, dog breakfasts, and Dad's tea. Usually, I make the tea, and my spouse brings it up, along with the morning paper. But Dad has been having an "alert" week, so I brought the tea and the dogs upstairs for a little good morning.

We spent a few minutes with Dad, and then we all trooped back down the stairs, at which time I gave the dogs their breakfasts, tidied up the kitchen, filled their water bowl, sorted a few pieces of laundry...and started to feel nauseated. A little dizzy. And suddenly, very, very exhausted. Butt, meet chair, like NOW.

My little dog Poppy, who has never been trained as a support dog (except through 12 years of exposure to me), immediately came over and sat down in front of me, in her "on duty" stance. My syncope is something she's well familiar with. I sat there, head lower than heart, for about five minutes. Spouse comes in. "Overdid it, didn't you?" Concern in their voice. This is a familiar scene; I'm not dying, just chronically ill.

Let's take a quick survey of just how I "overdid" it. I stood up. I put clothes on. I bent down to pick up dog bowls. I walked thirty feet. I made instant coffee, filled two dog bowls, wiped down counters, threw a few things away, made a cup of tea, and walked up (and down) a flight of stairs. Those things were enough to take me out.

So I cried. I waited until the spouse was safely at work -- barely. But then I cried, and hugged my doggos, and my head spun and my stomach churned, and I just felt sorry for myself. It's all just so unfair. I wanted to bring my father-in-law a nice cup of tea and tell him it was made with love. I wanted to see the dogs romping around on his bed for a few minutes, because it always makes him smile, and I like it when that happens. And for that, my body just punishes me.

I don't always melt down when these things happen. I'm really not what I'd consider a drama queen. Most of the time, I can just paste on a stiff upper lip and soldier on. I might be American, but I've been married to a Brit for twenty-five years and living in England for two, so. I'm also autistic, so "masking" is my middle name. But today, for some reason, was just too much.

I didn't do anything extraordinary. It's impossible to explain to people that sometimes my body just does this to me. There's no rhyme or reason. One minute, I feel perfectly fine and normal, and the next? Maybe I'll pass out, maybe not. Maybe I'll puke, or not.

It can be isolating. As awful as the internet can be, if it weren't for the internet, I'd be even more cut off than I am. I can attend internet events, because I can do that from the sofa with my bathroom ten steps away. I don't have to cancel at the last minute. I can laugh and talk with friends, and it doesn't require me to shower, get dressed, put on makeup, and travel anywhere. I can close the window when the fatigue hits me and I just *cannot* anymore.

It’s hard to explain the kind of grief that comes with losing normalcy — not the big, cinematic kind of grief, but the quiet, repetitive kind. The kind that sneaks up on you when you bend to pick up a dog bowl or carry a cup of tea upstairs. It’s the grief of remembering what used to be effortless and realizing it no longer is.

And it’s invisible. From the outside, it looks like nothing happened — a normal morning, a few small tasks. People see the cup of tea, not the cost of making it. They don’t see the spinning head, the shaky legs, or the little dog who knows when to take her post. They don’t see the math we do in our heads before every movement: Can I manage the stairs right now? Is it worth it?

I’m not looking for sympathy. I don't want to see any comments saying how strong I am. I guess...I just wanted to say that existing in a body that betrays you can be a full-time job. Sometimes, that job pays in moments of love...like a smile from a nearly 98-year-old man holding his tea. Other days, it pays in nausea and dizziness. Most days, it’s both.

If this is also you, I see you. I recognize you. And it's okay to melt down sometimes.