There are times when I am totally ashamed of myself. I had a bad day yesterday. Arthritis is not fun. It hurts. Some days it hurts more than other days. I found myself irritated because I couldn't do some of the things I wanted to do. I also found myself in the middle of a pity party. Shame on me.
My brother understands what this is all about. Arthritis is our family inheritance. How he keeps on keeping on, working in a physically demanding job, is beyond me. I admire his strength and courage.
So in the middle of my mental whining (Whining out loud around here doesn't mean a thing. The dogs ignore me and the cats could care less!) and feeling sorry for myself, I thought about my brother. And then I thought about my mother, who was in a wheelchair and in a nursing home at a much younger age than I am now because of this disease. I was able to get out of bed yesterday morning. Mother could only get out of bed if someone lifted her. I was able to take a shower alone, get dressed alone, fix my coffee and my meals without help and my hands still worked well enough to do some sewing. Mother was unable to do any of these things. What she would have given to have been able to function without help, I can only guess.
Today, on the other hand, is one of my Better Days. I have been busy doing some of the household chores that were left undone yesterday. I have been up and down the stairs in my building a couple of times without much of a problem. I am back to normal, whatever normal is. But I am left with a sense of shame at letting yesterday's trials get me down. I try really hard not to do that. Most of the time I succeed. And when I don't, I think of those who are much worse off than I am.
It is sort of like the person who complained he had no shoes right up until he met a man who had no feet.
I think I need to concentrate more on what I do have, and be grateful for it.
The truth about exercise?
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