Winter is over. That can be hard to call for sure in Boston and I’m a bit superstitious about saying things like that aloud. But I’m ready to commit to the end of winter. Spring is here.
Springtime in Boston is so pleasant and joyful that I think about it in ridiculous hyperbole. The damp dark tones of thawing earth, the stubbornly cheerful flowers, the warm wind rushing around your face in its hurry. The way the moon shines silver on breaking waves and light creeps along the horizon earlier with each passing day. Walking to work in my low yellow heels and a light sweater instead of boots and the bulk of cold weather. The cool clarity of night air through open windows.
It’s a good thing I love all these things because season changes are rough. It is one of the few aspects of mast cell disease that seems universal. We don’t react well to change and so many things change with seasons. Pollen, foods, behaviors, activities, hobbies, temperature, humidity, obligations. I wake up drenched in sour sweat, my eyes burning when I open them in the morning, already nauseous. My neck and chest are cherry red with an occasional hive for variety. I’m having some word finding issues and some obnoxious but fleeting neurologic symptoms. So yea. It’s lucky I really like spring.
It has been a rough few weeks all the way around, work, masto, MastAttack, feelings. I have never been a person who counts days or months; I mark time by seasons. Last spring, I was recovering at home from lower GI surgery after eight days in the hospital. Two springs ago, I was recovering from a several days long anaphylactic episode that landed me in the hospital for five days. Three springs ago, I was starting a new job with a brand new ostomy.
These past several months have been difficult and sad in a way I can’t really articulate. There is a weariness and a sadness and a joy and an optimism that I wield like a weapon, even when I don’t think it will help. It is a physical stability with emotional trauma and pain and regret and living with my choices. It is not terrible. It is just hard. Some days it is so, so hard.
More and more I realize that the reason I have not really found a new normal as my disease progressed is because there is no normal with this disease. There is no consistency so there can be no lasting adaptation. I no longer have expectations for what I will feel like in any moment that isn’t the one I’m currently occupying.
You don’t adapt to unpredictability. You just try not to be consumed by it.
But I’m still glad it’s spring.