The TV (Lost) Identifies with Us!

SPOILER ALERT: Lost, particularly but not limited to Season 6 Episode 4 (“The Substitute”) is discussed below.

It’s nice when the TV verbalizes something that I’ve felt but couldn’t put into words. This happened recently with Lost.

In the final season of Lost, a new reality exists, where the previous five seasons never happened, and rather than crashing on the mysterious island, Oceanic Flight 815 lands safely at LAX as scheduled. There is a question of whether the lives of the passengers would change in the new reality or if destiny would ensure that everything would end up as it was in the first reality. In the case of John Locke, at least one thing changes significantly.

In both realities, John Locke is disabled and travels via wheelchair. However, in the first reality, when the plane crashed, his disability vanished, and he could walk again. In the new reality, without the island, he remains disabled and wheelchair-bound. In the first reality, with his disability gone, Locke never has to face his disability; he never has to accept it. However, in the new reality, it remains a part of his life.

As if by fate, Locke encounters Rose, one of the other passengers from Flight 815, in the new reality. Rose’s story is similar to Locke’s; in both realities she has terminal cancer, which vanishes on the island but remains in the new reality. Rose helps Locke accept his disability, so that he can move on with his life. While helping him find a temp job, after Locke insists he wants to work in construction, Rose tells him, “When the doctors first told me [about my terminal cancer], I had a hard time accepting it. But eventually, I got past the denial part and I got back to living whatever life I've got left. So, how about we find you a job you can do?”

As a fibromyalgia sufferer who also happens to be legally blind (I was born with the latter), I identify strongly with Rose’s words. With each of my disabilities, at different times, I had to accept that this is my life. For a long time with each of them, I dwelled in denial, holding onto hope that a cure would come. I went to doctor after doctor, waiting and hoping for a magical cure. In my late teens, a doctor finally told me there is no cure for my eye condition (Juvenile Macular Degeneration), and when I was finally diagnosed with fibromyalgia and informed there is currently no cure for it (about nine months after my symptoms began), I was finally able to accept that my respective disabilities are a part of my life and I had to learn to live with them. I had to accept that a cure might never come, and I can’t live my life waiting for something that might never happen. That doesn’t mean closing myself off to the possibility of a miracle, or of a cure, or of a new treatment, but it means freeing myself from the binds of waiting for that miracle.

This sentiment is captured perfectly on Lost (in the same episode), when John Locke says to his fiancée Helen Norwood in the new reality, “[I was going to go on] an adventure in the outback, man against nature, but they wouldn't let me go. And, and I sat there yelling at them, shouting at them that couldn't tell me what I can't do. But they were right. I'm sick of imagining what my life could be out of this chair, Helen, what it would be like to walk down the aisle with you, 'cause it's not gonna happen. So if you need me to see more doctors, [or] have more consults, if you need me to get out of this chair, I don't blame you. But I don't want you to spend your life waiting for a miracle, Helen, because there is no such thing,” Helen responds, “There are miracles, John. And the only thing I was ever waiting for was you.”

Fibro-Spoons

[Originally an email, August 8, 2008 (08/08/08!)]

I happened upon "The Spoon Theory," which describes to healthy people what it's like to have an "invisible" and chronic disease. The Spoon Theory is actually about lupus, but this person changed it to be about her fibromyalgia (I think it's a her) by replacing the word “lupus” with “fibromyalgia” everywhere.

It's really good, although there are obvious differences between this person and me (she's on drugs, she has some symptoms that I (knock on wood) no longer have and that I hopefully won't get again but I could, she seems to be more functional than I’ve been so far, etc). The Spoons thing also mentions symptoms that I don’t believe happen in fibromyalgia. For example, I haven't seen anything about fibro causing hair loss (I mean, I definitely shed a lot, but that's different (normal), and also just being sick (in this case, like in a relapse or flare-up) can make you shed more than usual).

Generally, though, it does nicely explain me and my fibro, which is probably why it made me cry a little. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry if it makes you cry too.

[In another email on February 16, 2009 (exactly a year ago, how funny), after telling the friends I was emailing about some improvements I had experienced, I made good use of the spoons-talk, nicely demonstrating the usefulness of the "Spoons" concept in talking about fibro (and other chronic pain diseases or syndromes). I think what I wrote could also provide some useful advice for fellow fibro sufferers.]

Unfortunately, along with all this improving came a reminder of how I really need to be aware of my fibro and not over-exert even if I'm feeling well enough and almost like a normal. Last week at physical therapy, I was feeling quite good and energetic, so when I was on the stationary bike, I went pretty fast, much faster than usual, for a good portion of the 10 minutes. This was all fine until the next 2-3 days, when I was really, really sore, like unacceptably sore (it's normal to be sore for 1-2 days after a new or increased exercise, but this was just ridiculous). So clearly that was a reminder that I must remain aware of my spoons, and just because I’m having a really good day, I shouldn’t throw my spoons in the air and see what I catch, because even now (and probably forever), that could (and did) result in missing spoons for the next few days, and that's just not good.

UPDATE: April 29, 2011

I was fibro-googling, and found this explanation of the difference between a chronic pain sufferer and a normal person.  Like the spoon thing, it is also coming from a Lupus sufferer, and it also applies to Fibromyalgia and probably other chronic pain disorders.  It’s not as catchy as the Spoons, but it does explain that chronic pain sufferers experience pain and fatigue differently than normals do.

Groan...that link doesn't work anymore (as of March 2, 2013).  I tried to find something similar, and the best I could find was this open letter to the family and friends of Fibromyalgia sufferers.  I don't really remember the thing I initially linked to too well, but I think it might have been even better than the open letter.

UPDATE July 8, 2013

I came across this thing with lots of helpful tips for friends, family, and caregivers of people with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and I think these things could also apply to Fibromyalgia and other normal-looking but debilitating illnesses.  For Fibro application, simply replace "Chronic Fatigue" with "Fibromyalgia," and add "and owie" wherever it says "tired" or "fatigue."

“Tears like Diamonds”

Every time I hear (or read the lyrics of) Rob Thomas’ “Her Diamonds,” tears like diamonds fall from my eyes (or almost do, I’m usually pretty good at holding back tears, it’s a talent).

I learned some time ago that the song is about Rob Thomas’ wife who suffers from a rare, lupus-like autoimmune disease. Clearly, I totally identify with her; while it is not likely that fibromyalgia is autoimmune, it does have the same symptoms of pain that nothing can help.

The song perfectly captures the misery and helplessness of both the pain sufferer as well as her or his loved ones who watch and want to help so badly, but who just can’t do anything.  It becomes a vicious cycle because then the pain sufferer feels terrible for what we’re doing to our loved ones, and empathy cycles.

The song applies very much to what my life has become, but it really brings me back to the pre-physical therapy days, when my loved ones and I suffered so much from such unbearable pain for so long.  The song is cathartic that way.

The song ends with a bit of hope, as it should, where helplessness and misery give way to the relief that eventually comes.  I don’t know about other diseases, but with Fibromyalgia, the unbearable pain eventually lightens and becomes bearable.  Much like the onset of the pain, there might be no apparent reason for its relief, but it does come in time, or so it has in my experience.  The time can range from seconds to months, but the relief comes.  For me, months or weeks have become seconds or days since I’ve been in physical therapy.  Someone should write a song about the miracle of physical therapy.