Well I was going to just post part of my autofightbio (my new name for it. it’s a biography of me fighting RSD, so clever I know. Haha.) But I’ve decided to post all of what I have so far. Be forewarned, it’s got errors and it’s not all that great, but it’s the basic framework.
The Journey of a Girl
This is the story of a girl. A girl I know quite well. I’ve been right there through all her struggles and the changes that have made her who she is today. She’s still learning growing and changing. She’s still dealing. She’s still fighting. She’s a fighter. This is the story of a girl and that girl is me. I hope you are inspired by my story or at least take something away from it. There are parts, which you may not believe, but this is a completely true account of my journey; life is crazy sometimes.
Well there’s not too much notable about me. Well not before seventh grade. I was born. I learned to walk and talk. I learned to read and loved the arts. Birthdays came and went. I got older and became the girl that I was supposed to. I behaved, got good grades and was well on my way.
Then seventh grade came. I went into it like any other feeling very confused about who I was. I made great new friends. There were arguments with these new friends, but nothing too tragic was happening. I had a couple teachers I absolutely hated. They didn’t understand how hard I worked and that all I wanted to do was please them. One of them was my math teacher. It was the first time in math I wasn’t the star student; it was really frustrating to me. I mean I didn’t need perfection; I just wanted to do well; I knew I could, but it wasn’t my fault this wasn’t so. This teacher’s style was not meshing with mine, or anyone else’s for that matter. I bet you could ask anyone who was in my class that year and they’d tell you, she was horrible. She was too sarcastic and too blunt. She just read stuff off and didn’t describe anything. I mean, we were the higher level student’s but hello, it’s seventh grade. Of course no one questioned her, because if you did you were in for it.
I see her now from time to time and she acts all nicey nice and like I was the best student she ever had. Well maybe I was, but she certainly didn’t let on, at the time. She made that year so much harder for me. I honestly think that she just feels bad, because of what happened and maybe she realizes what a bitch she was… hopefully.
The there was my English teacher. I mean nothing bad about her teaching it was just hard to handle her sometimes. She treated me well. She was nothing like my math teacher, well actually similar at times, but when it came to me anyways. She didn’t have an issue with me and I learned a lot, but she was just kind of angry, at all seventh graders she’d been given to teach. Honestly, I see why. We weren’t the best of the bunch…
Okay, enough about teachers, well no, actually I take that back. The other two were a little nutty. They weren’t exactly traditional. I think they were both a little cracked…
Back to this eventful journey I am embarking on. Okay, up to this point nothing too extraordinary has occurred. I agree. Average stress of being in seventh grade, dealing with bad teachers and the drama that girls of that age face, nothing special. Well then there was October 29th, 2005. It doesn’t stand out in your mind? Well it most certainly does in mine.
I got home from school (I believe it was a Friday?) and of course was probably all grumpy and giving attitude to my parents, but I really don’t remember. Then I got the news. We’d be going on a haunted hay ride that night with my grandparent’s and my little cousin who lives with them. I was ecstatic! I was getting out of the house, avoiding homework and going to have a fun time.
We arrived at the sugaring/pancake house just as dusk was falling. The sun had dipped below the horizon and everything was covered by a blanket of darkness. We stood in line waiting for the hay wagon to pull up, taking in the warm donut aromas and feeling the cool fall air on our skin. It was my father, mother, sister, grandpa, gram, and little cousin plus me. We all carefully walked across the hay bails into the wagon and sat down. I was sitting near my gram and Stephanie, my cousin. The trailer lurched forward as the man in the tractor shifts the tractor into gear. We move straight forward, slightly up hill, around a corner into the depths of the woods. There are surprises around every corner, spooky things including men jumping out and hanging on the cage surrounding us. It is enjoyable, a perfect Halloween haunted hay ride. The wagon clunks to a halt and we all rise to get out. My mother falls on the hay balls in front of me. I worry about her, hoping she isn’t seriously hurt, but move along to keep the flow of people unloading moving. I jump to the ground and am greeted by an unusually sore foot. It aches, and feels like I’ve walked hundreds of miles. We stay to walk around and eat food, but I can’t focus on having fun anymore. The pain is worsening. I am racking my brain to try and think of why it hurts. I tell my dad, and he just tells me it will be better by morning, it’s probably just the rough terrain and all the walking. I’m like yea, I knew that and wait for the ride home.
The next morning I get up ready for an exciting Saturday, but as I place my feet on the plush carpet and begin applying weight threw my legs, my plans are wrecked. My foot isn’t any better. In fact it’s worse. I call my grandmother, she and I often share ailments and ask her what she thinks it could be. I tell her it’s in the ball of my foot and it’s really bad. She tells me to wait it out and stay off it. She’s coming on Monday to our house, and tells me if it doesn’t get better she’ll bring me to the doctors.
It definitely doesn’t get better. Somehow I survive a day of school without people noticing, but then we go to walk around Walmart. I’m dragging behind, it’s extreme. When I get home I have to crawl around. The tears are constantly welling in my eyes. I decide I have to go to the doctors even though I don’t want to.
My mother and I sit in the doctors waiting room. We are eventually called in by a nurse. They check my weight and ask about my symptoms. What I want to know is why the heck my foot hurts. The doctor comes in one I’ve never seen before. She checks it over. It makes tears roll down my cheeks as she examines and tries to move it. She finally gives her diagnoses. Plantar Facscittis. I can’t comprehend such a big word. My mother and I ask about what it is. She explains it’s the tightening of the foot muscle. She asks if I want crutches. I debate. I know I’ve been crawling, but I figure, she’s giving me exercises to make it better, and it’s really not worth it. I figure if I needed them she wouldn’t ask she’d give them to me.
I start the exercises. They’re excruciating. The next day I end up back at the doctors for crutches. I can’t walk. Tears are becoming more and more frequent. At school there are questions and I explain best I can. I look it up online and try to figure out why I got it. All the stuff I’m seeing online doesn’t sound like my foot. I tell my dad this and he finds it odd but really thinks I should try to do the exercises a couple more days. So I do. And it continues to go downhill from there. It’s becoming hard to focus in school. And the crutches are giving me a rash on my sides and sore arms. I’m sick of them, but now when I try to place my foot down, it brings automatic tears. Time to go back to the doctor.
Little did I know then, I’d be getting pretty sick of doctors. In the grand scheme of things this was a very small step towards getting my life back. I didn’t know I was losing my life. I wish I’d paid me attention. I wish I’d been like a baby and sucked up those months like a sponge. I probably figured I wouldn’t want to remember and that it’d pass and be not that big of a deal. Oh how wrong I was. This doctor I was on my way to see was going to be wrong too, but back then I still had faith in doctors.
Pediatricians, sure for the common ear infection or stomach virus they’re great to comfort parents. They’ll prescribe antibiotics and have X-rays taken. When you don’t have a broken bone or something fixed with antibiotics they fall to pieces. So I go back to the pediatrician. They are just frustrated and not trying hard enough. They decide to send me into formal PT. This is the best move they ever made. The PT was amazing she changed my life. The pediatrician also gets me set up with a foot doctor (podiatrist). I go home. In more pain they I have ever experienced. Mind you, I was supposed to be in school during all this. I don’t remember much of school in the first stages of seeing doctors. I’ll get to more of the school hell later…
My first physical therapy appointment got me really excited. I was told that I’d be going into pool therapy because my pain was so severe and I couldn’t weight bare. I am a swim-aholic. My friends and family often have called me a fish or mermaid. At this time I don’t realize that having to be in pool therapy is bad. I also don’t realize how long I will be in it, how much I will grow to hate it and what really is going on. Also at this appointment is the first time a hear a three letter acronym which will eventually rule my life. I have no idea what it is. It’s said in passing and she doesn’t go into detail or make it seem like a big deal. She notes, that it’s good I’m here and that they will be making sure it’s not RSD, or something to that effect.
I go home all excited, keen on getting better and certain I will. My mom is making spaghetti…I can’t walk but am in a good mood. I’m confident that I am on my way to recovery. I’m on my way…but I’m not sure as though recovery is the proper word for where I was headed.
I begin attending pool therapy appointments but all the while things are not improving. It’s getting harder and harder to survive school. I crutch around trying to explain what’s wrong with me, when no one is really sure. I strongly remember getting bumped in the hallway falling, putting weight on my foot and crying out. It was rough, trying to stay focused when the pain was so intense it overpowered my thoughts. I tried, and my grades didn’t suffer, but definitely weren’t up to my average. This didn’t bother me so much. I was too focused on what was going on outside of school. I had to have tests I’ve never before heard of and attend pool therapy which was unbearable. The water scalded my skin it was cold and purple and when the 80 degree water hit it, it wasn’t pleasant. In fact the color change in my foot wasn’t only concerning to me. After my first few pool appointments I went to see Erika, my regular PT again. She was so concerned at its temperature, she sent me to the ER. I was terrified. I was also, slowing wearing out.
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Also I have some quotes for you! This is exciting! I’m going to pick out some everyday. But the post was so long orginally that... it got cut off so they're on the next post.
