This other side mama knows not about
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| Photo: Wakini Kuria |
Living with arthritis is
not easy, has never been easy. Joint pains that never seem to cease. If it’s
not the limbs then it’s the knees or both. Swallow a couple of painkillers and
the relief is bliss up until they wear off and you will need support to move
about, feed, bathe or just comb own hair. Simple tasks such as lifting a spoon
to your mouth becomes quite a task while wearing a shoe becomes a heavy weight
lifting challenge.
I am ever surprised how l
will walk into a room and take a seat. Several minutes later, when l make about
to leave, only to realise that l can’t walk. My mum and l joke that ‘Diesel imeisha!’ as she supports me to
wherever l was going. Meanwhile, my face will be contorted with pain,
whimpering here and there.
Long before we realised
that red meat was bad for me, my grandpa whose loves for nyama choma and the brown bottle was profound would cut pieces for
me, as l sipped soda. Later, my poor dad would carry me home as grandpa too
limped to bed, albeit drunk and tomorrow we would repeat the same thing. Sigh!
Doctors said cold
weather, animal products, processed foods and proteins are my sworn enemies and
my mother followed that religiously. I would be stuffed in warm clothes, mostly
woollen, was made to stay indoors and would be beaten if l dared shed off the
many layers or ventured outside. My love for milk died at the doctor’s table as
he printed out my diet-sheet and that’s how l became a vegetarian, with only
white meat to enjoy and lots of vegetables. My friend in college christened me
‘rabbit.’
I bid goodbye to
processed drinks, dairy products, the much loved pork, citrus fruit and
proteins. When little, I had to bear it all since mum was around and stood
guard like a cop but today with no one looking l steal away and consume
something. I call it my moments of relapse where l venture out and ‘treat’ my
cravings. It would be that citrus fruit, ice cream, juice or pork. Passion
fruit was my favourite fruit before that doctor happened. Now its bananas. I
just can’t have enough!
My dark moments when l go
drinking. This time not soda but alcohol. Vodka seems to be calling me from the
shelf, and an occasional puff. I still do eat pork. My dad brings me some at
home. He’s very innocent at this. Of course l can’t, won’t tell.
I go for my every three-month
painkiller jab that makes me feel super powerful. I can almost lift an elephant
by myself, almost do a marathon-race, and do laundry, dishes and all else that
l am unable to do when running low on my ‘diesel.’ This time l will touch cold water and not
‘notice’ it but wait until when, it wears off and I am almost going nuts with
pain and withdrawal symptoms.
Otherwise on my good
days, I am hyper, fun and ‘wild’ which isn’t good with an inborn sense of
adventure and a dare-devil spirit that visits on its own time. Maybe l should
mention that the 3-month jab consists of steroids. My poor parents are unable
to contain me when l go wild.
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