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ME/CFS South Australia Inc supports the needs of sufferers of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and related illnesses. We do this by providing services and information to members.
Disclaimer
ME/CFS South Australia Inc aims to keep members informed of various research projects, diets, medications, therapies, news items, etc. All communication, both verbal and written, is merely to disseminate information and not to make recommendations or directives.
Unless otherwise stated, the views expressed on this Web site are not necessarily the official views of the Society or its Committee and are not simply an endorsement of products or services.
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Being A Mom With Fibromyalgia Means Teaching My Kids The Importance Of Kindness
Wednesday 17 July 2019
 (Photo: Samantha Chavarria, HelloGiggles) |
Being a mom with fibromyalgia means teaching my kids the importance of kindness
Motherhood—and mothers’ voices—should be celebrated every day. But that also means having conversations about the complexities of parenting. In our weekly series, “Millennial Moms,” writers discuss the simultaneously beautiful and daunting responsibilities of motherhood through the lens of their millennial experiences. Here, we’ll be discussing things like burnout from the several side hustles we work to provide for our kids and pay our student loans, dating app struggles as young single moms, rude comments from other parents at daycare, and so much more. Stop by every week for a judgment-free space on the internet where women can share the less rosy aspects of motherhood.
I was more prepared than most when I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. Sure, I was nervous and scared, but I knew what to expect. My dad had the condition as well—diagnosed in his late 30s when I was a preteen. Because of this, I knew just how harsh the transition from able-bodied to disabled could be.
A haunting moment stands out in my memory; the point when I realized something was seriously wrong with my dad. We were on the second floor of our apartment complex when it happened. My dad suddenly fell down the stairs; toppling down two floors of concrete and finally coming to a stop on the stone landing. My sister and I—the only people with him—immediately went into disaster mode.
We panicked, screamed, and cried—begging for someone to come help our dad. In turn, he tried to hush us; reassuring us that he was fine. Feeling somewhat annoyed and completely betrayed by his body, my dad struggled to stand up. We pulled at his arms and pushed him forward until we were able to get him upright. Getting him back up the stairs was an additional struggle, and he was left beat up by the accident.
That was the first time I realized my dad was sick. Of course, I knew factually that he had a condition, but I didn’t register what that meant. Sure, he would come home struggling to walk sometimes, but he would still envelop me in his wide chest with his strong arms. He was still the person I went to first with a problem or a triumph. My dad was no different than he was before his fibromyalgia diagnosis.
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