A Fallible Body



I used to love my body. I loved my feet, my too big feet, for allowing me to run, to walk and explore.
I loved my hands for enabling to work all day on my computer, to produce stuff that was important. I also loved the way they could produce food for my family. Although I admit I wished they couldn’t do they housework.

I loved my body for holding me up. I loved that it could lift and carry little human beings, nuzzle, cuddle and tickle them. I loved it for giving me pleasure and being able to produce pleasure for someone else.


And then it couldn’t do those things anymore. It started with a bit of a sore foot while jogging along the Wellington South Coast. It’s a bit stony there so I didn’t think much of it – just a bruise - then my fat knees that I never loved, couldn’t manage the stairs. Then my fingers couldn’t press the keys on a keyboard and my wrists couldn’t manage the work of stirring the oats in the porridge pot. My arms could not hold the people I loved.

Many years, lots of treatments – successes and failures. Hands come back, feet come back… and go again. Now I love my body. I love it when my feet will let me run, walk and explore. I love my hands because they can make things, cook things, clean things. Because I can use them to hold the people I love. I know this can all change. One day, again, the drugs won’t work and the search will begin again, but it gets easier every time, thanks to medical advances.

Every day, I wake up and I love my body for what it can do right now.

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