'It began last September: a year ago.
It was the end of a bad relationship and the end of a bad summer.
I bled from my backside and I was ill for two months solid.
I was in a little isolation room in a dirty west country hospital.
I thought I was going to die.
My brain, heart, body shrunk; when I opened my eyes all I could see was the grey
Tentacles of death, winding around me.
But I fought, and fought, and began to eat,
Began to emerge from the black.
And then one evening my bladder started screaming.
Not just a little whimper; a terrifying yell of surrender
And fury. I went to the doctor.
I went to another doctor.
My bladder stayed angry; furious in fact.
There was nothing much the doctors could do,
Except for look inside me, diagnose, tell me the facts.
But the reality is this:
My illness settled in my bladder.
It burns, pushes, complains, winges, niggles at me.
Some days I am ok; some days I am paralysed in pain.
And how has it changed me?
I'm quieter; I'm more grateful.
I'm more spiky; I'm less hateful.
I'm happy to do less and to aim lower if it means less pain.
I would give anything to get better.
I am campaigning for a drug that may make my hair fall out, because I want to get better.
So I have become desperate, and yet more calm.
There is irony in Interstitial Cystitis.
The people I did not really care about have faded away;
Those who love me and whom I love have become brighter.
Dear friends and companions whose kindness I appreciate every day.
My children have come to life in technicolour in my world.
I am blessed beyond belief to have them and even at the worst times
I thank this godforsaken illness for showing me how lucky I am.'
http://icramblings.com/2013/09/03/interstitial-cystitis-in-its-most-poetic-form/
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