Bad Joint Days
The Existential Ennui of a Chronic Illness
Located on a steep downhill behind the Whole Foods and mere steps from my house, the office is brown and unassuming despite the orange branding that they’re trying to promote. Cement ramp, door number 1, then door number 2, then check in. Name, birthdate, appointment time, do you want to schedule a follow-up? I am surrounded by men in casts and women with walkers. There is still some confusion about whether we should mask, so my fellow patrons and I adjust based on the consensus in the waiting room.
At the bottom of a hill behind my house, a farce repeats twice weekly for three months. In leggings and pink sneakers, I stand waiting for their commands.
“Which joint is it again?” The PT asks as he adjusts the stationary bike. “Knee? Ankle?”
“All of them.” I reply. “It’s all of them.”
He will forget and two days later I will have to remind him. As clear as I can see you, I want to say, I can feel all of my joints. All of them.
Bad joint days are existential ennui, the closest I will ever get to philosphizing.
They are a bone wearying tiredness that wants to drag me down into the soft warm embrace of plush fabric.
Bad joint days are the dull aching throb that even Motrin cannot banish.
Bad joint days almost always come on the heels of a changing weather pattern, or heaven forbid, some fun activity like walking 5 miles.
Bad joint days seep into every other facet of my life - and is akin to sitting down at a puzzle table and never wanting to get up or acknowledge the world that is out there and never really being able to because, well, you have bills to pay.
Bad joint days are coming a bit more frequently now, and I am unsure if that’s because I’m only finally noticing the pain my body is in, or that it’s getting worse. A lovely chicken and egg conundrum.
Bad joint days are a reminder of the slow, impending nature of death. The reminder that there is no one else to take care of me, so I’m just going to have to soldier on anyways because there’s no other choice.
Bad joint days rob me of my agency, my desire to do literally anything else other than what’s easiest. Make a dinner with this meal kit you paid for or eat two donuts?
Bad joint days are the voice inside your head telling you that everyone is hanging out without you and that you are the problem.
Bad joint days are knowing that it’s not really that bad. You still have functional use of your limbs, I chide to myself. It could be much worse.
Bad joint days are the realization that this pain was always there, and that it’s only been within recent memory that I’ve been acknowledging it. Bad joint days are the specters of everything I forced my body through before.
I want you to try something for me. It’ll only take a second. Close your eyes. Shut out the world. Now, sit. Tell me: what do you feel? Do you feel anything? This is a test and there is a right answer.
Oh man, those bad joint days must be terrible. Does writing help take you out of it?
In answer to your question, closing eyes, characters want out and onto the page.