When The Weather Changes
From The Muse Jar: On chronic illness, pressure changes, performance, and medication.
When the weather changes the monster wakes hungry not all at once first it hears pressure falling and begins to salivate then the beast smells the rain before the clouds have even gathered uncurls itself from the hollow of my pelvis stretches its black talon down my spine and begins its terrible work gurgling in the hollow of my bones grinding marrow between its molars gnawing clicking chewing the medicine cabinet is where the monster and I meet to discuss terms I stand with one hand on the counter and one hand around the bottle reading the warning label the monster wants the strong thing I do not want pity I do not want panic I want to be believed before I have to prove how much it hurts I want mercy without a lease comfort without having to gamble the rest of my life for one quiet hour I will ration my relief just enough to attend dinner enough that I can ask about your day And lie about being fine there is a grief in being easy to love because no one knows how much of you is missing from the table there is a grief in realizing you have protected everyone from your suffering except yourself the truth is I have spent years trying to be grateful for the body I am also trapped inside but the world does not wait for the body that cannot tell the difference between weather and war so I count the safe pills like little white moons and swallow them with the full knowledge that they are not enough.
This poem is one of three that was inspired by the incredible Ilana J Sprongl, who submitted a prompt related to chronic illness.
The other two poems are “The Butcher Shop” and “A Small Blessing For The Body That Keeps Going”. I decided to post “A Small Blessing For The Body That Keeps Going” first incase anyone needs to revisit a lighter poem after reading them.
More specifically these three poems are about what it feels like to live inside a body that can change with the weather, the pressure, the smallest invisible shift in the air.
About pain that arrives before the rain does. Pain that makes a home inside you. Pain that other people cannot see, so you learn to perform wellness for them. You smile at dinner. You answer texts. You say, “I’m fine,” because explaining the full truth feels too heavy to place in someone else’s hands.
It is also about the impossible math of pain management: wanting relief, needing relief, but being afraid of what certain medications that can be addictive and dangerous.
Chronic illness can be lonely, not because there are no people around you, but because so much of it happens in private. In bathrooms. In beds. In the quiet calculation of whether you can make it through one more event, one more shift, one more normal-looking day.
If this poem made you feel seen, or if it made you think of someone you love, Ilana and I wanted to share a few Canadian resources:
Crohn’s and Colitis Canada supports people living with Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis through education, community, advocacy, and research toward better treatments and cures. Their work focuses on improving the lives of children and adults affected by inflammatory bowel disease.
The Canadian Spondyloarthritis Association supports people living with spondyloarthritis, including axial spondyloarthritis and related inflammatory arthritis conditions. They provide education, advocacy, awareness, and community for patients, caregivers, and healthcare professionals, including work around reducing the long diagnostic delays many patients face.
Please check on your chronically ill friends. Believe them, even when they put on a brave face.
And if you are living with this too: I believe you. I believe the pain you hide. I believe the life you are building around it.
This post was inspired by a prompt provided in The Muse Jar, a project where people submit something —a word, memory, smell, anything—and I randomly pick some to write a poem about.
If you would like to learn more about The Muse Jar, you can see the post below.
If you would like to become a muse, you can submit here.
This poem really resonates with me. “The medicine cabinet is where the monster and I meet to discuss terms” and “the body that cannot tell the difference between weather and war” are incredible lines that treat chronic illness and chronic pain like an actual battle with terms of surrender.
Thank you!