What is it with dress sizes these days? Over the past few weeks, I have fit into a size 4, 6, 8, and even a large with equal ease! I am completely befuddled as to what my “true” size is, and only know that sometimes, I’m delighted (a 4!) and sometimes shake my head (a large?!)
I’ve read that the “average” size for a woman in the U.S. is a “10.” Which equates to a “medium” someplaces and a “large” others. I’ve also read that we’re becoming heavier in general, so I wonder if, in the near future, that “10” will become a “12,” and in some dressing room somewhere, I’ll discover that I need an “extra-large” in one style and a “petite 4” in another?!
All that being said, clothing sizes and illness pose great challenges for many of us. Often, the size depends upon what medication we’re on and whether or if we’ve been able to keep up with our exercise regimen (doctor-ordered, of course). I know some lupies who keep one set of clothing for one scenario, and another for another. It could be very easy to exhaust a budget and run out of closets!
And then, of course, there is the problem of sizes…Which, perhaps, we are too fixated on. Perhaps we should, actually, be thinking of shape – the shape of our lives and the comfort we have in our own skin, even if we have a serious illness.
Perhaps, it’s not so much that post-prednisone we’re slimming down than it is that we strive for health – in body, mind and spirit – however that health presents itself. We can always cinch up a waist with a belt or add a lovely scarf to a stretchy top.
I suppose we can always move up a size or down…And still be able to laugh!
Complete your outdoor tasks,
and arrange your work in the field;
afterward you can establish your house.
Proverbs 24: 27
Very few of us probably work in a field these days. But there’s a resonance for us in the verses above as they relate to prioritizing our lives and, especially, in helping us understand the “pecking order” of important “to do’s” that we with chronic illness observe every day. And, when it comes to serious illness: taking care of health is vital.
Without the most optimal health we possibly can have, we are ill-equipped (pardon the pun) to tackle all the other challenges we face, or even the pleasures that we try to include in our homes and hearts. For example, if we do not work with our doctors on our treatment regimens, we might not get the full benefit of what they offer and, thus, not have as much mobility, energy, or spark to take care of family, pets, and other things that bring us great joy.
Without being as strong as we possibly can, we do not allow ourselves the optimal chance to meet unexpected challenges. I once asked a very exercise averse lupie what she would do if she were on a top floor of a building, but wasn’t strong enough to manage even one flight of stairs. She said, “I’d wait until the firemen came up and carried me down!”
Of course, there are some things we cannot do, or some capabilities that we do not have. But the more we take care of the “business” of tending our “field” (life with illness), the more we will have resilience to take care of other things – and, yes, enjoy more of life!
When I was first diagnosed with lupus, I asked my rheumatologist if she recommended I attend a patient support group. Her answer surprised me; she said ‘no,’ and explained that the experience might frighten me or make me depressed.
Eventually, I did attend a support group, and I saw what she meant; there was an odd sort of competition among a few of the attendees, with one person explaining how “bad” her flare was, and another insisting hers was more serious. I’d never thought of illness being competitive, but there it was!
Fortunately, also at that first support group, I met a woman who is, still today, one of my closest friends and “lupus warriors.” There’s no competition between us, but rather an eagerness to learn from one another (although I would say I’ve learned more from her longer experience than she might have from mine!). So, I am happy I went.
But, also, I have to say that the support group experience was not one that I stayed with. As I lived further on with lupus, I made more personal friends and the need for a group experience waned. Also, I found I was uncomfortable with the competitive nature of some of the patients; I am very competitive in some respects – when it comes to African violet shows, for example, or playing games such as tennis – but not when it comes to health matters. Those are not a “race” against someone else, and I sure don’t need to prove that my illness is “worse” or “better” than another patient’s.
For me, the competition vis-a-vis my disabilities is myself against my illness. How can I take these health challenges, for example, and not allow them to degrade my spirit. That, to me, is the appropriate kind of competitiveness I as a patient need to have.
There will always be people who insist their suffering is “worse” than someone else’s. I try to distance myself from them (while still being compassionate) because their sense of competitiveness tends to sap the energy from where it really needs to be: within myself, against the constraints that lupus oh-so-constantly tries to place upon me.
No, it’s not a typo. I know that the book and movie are called, “Far from the Madding Crowd.” But this post is about us and groups – when we find ourselves in a crowd and it’s maddening for us because, well, if many individuals do not understand what it’s like to have chronic pain, crowds can be absolutely clueless!
Besides the jostling, bumping, and elbowing that occurs when crowds are on the move, there can be a tremendous sense of isolation when crowds are confined to one place. Recently, I was in a large room where there was a large crowd. I happened to see an older woman sitting alone in a chair along one of the walls. I went over to her, and the first thing she said was, “I don’t like noise, and I don’t like crowds.” Clearly, she wanted to be at the event, but the circumstances were, at best, a difficult challenge.
As I have said many times, even if we have health issues that hobble us, we are still meant to be part of the world, including the world outside our protective walls. So how, then, can we better manage being in those often-maddening crowds?:
Bring an advocate with you. This is someone who can run interference for you as you move about in the crowd, and also help navigate food tables, restroom lines and other challenges.
Investigate getting a disability-accommodating seat at an event such in a concert hall or arena. Often these are more protected than general seating arrangements.
Save an extra seat so that those who wish to can sit beside you and talk. When a crowd is noisy, it’s very easy to strain you neck and voice trying to talk with someone while you are sitting and they are standing.
Bring some kind of visual “prop” that indicates you might need a wider berth. I have terrible arthritis in my knees, and it is impossible for me to negotiate stairs. But otherwise, my disability is invisible – unless I have a cane (which I do bring while traveling through crowded locales, such as airports).
Avoid standing or sitting near a restroom door or hallway, buffet table or the trash recepticle because there will be more foot traffic there.
Pactice what you’ll say if someone refuses to move out of your way or otherwise denies you an accommodation for your disability (especially if it’s invisible). This will help you not respond in heated anger, but rather advocate for yourself firmly and precisely.
When you enter a room, immediately note where the exits are and try to remain closeby one of them. In an emergency, a crowd can surge and become potentially harmful, and it is usually better to be near an exit so you can leave more quickly, ahead of the “mob.”
These are just a few of the things that I’ve found helpful. You might have some of your own, which I invite you to share!