Today, in sunny 65 degrees, I pulled out my bag of seeds and went through them to see what I should plant now. Final frost date for Memphis isn’t until the end of March, but stuff like lettuce, sugar snap peas, nasturtium, and some native plants shouldn’t wait that late—once we get to late spring here, it’s too hot for most of those. I’m not actually very good at food gardening, as I won’t use pesticides, but sometimes I try it out. And I love sugar snap peas, so I do try them every year, though generally I only get a handful before it’s too hot and the vines die.
Once I’d selected the right seed packets I went outside and threw some into the raised planter my husband got me last year. I poked the peas down into the soil, but most of the rest only needed a sprinkling of soil on top. I still had a lot of seeds and most of them were left over from last year already, so I walked around the yard, looking for any sunny spot in a raised bed or fenced area (two golden retrievers trample everything unless fenced out), and tossed down seeds. Then, since we’ve had a rare, dry late winter/early spring, I filled up the watering can from the rain barrel a few times so I could water the new seeds.
And then I staggered inside, my feet agony, and sat in an easy chair with my feet up, panting.
Sitting in my comfy chair, thinking about the utter idiocy of being that exhausted and sore from doing so little, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a robot body?”
I know, I know. Many a future dystopia involves people with robot bodies. It’s a terrible idea. The rich and ruthless could live forever, blah blah blah.
But if you have a chronic illness, chronic pain, or a variety of other physical conditions, you’ve probably thought about it, too. The body I was issued at birth, and which carried me through a childhood of tree-climbing, horse riding, and dare-accepting, was permanently diminished at age 21, when I ended up with a post-viral syndrome (now called ME/CFS) that’s pretty much the same thing as long COVID. And then, for reasons doctors cannot discern, my fatigue more than doubled and new pain was added four years ago—30 years after the syndrome began.
The point here isn’t a detailed account of my particular physical issues. Many, many people live with chronic pain and/or chronic fatigue. Unfortunately, these conditions are difficult to diagnose and difficult to treat. Sometimes doctors know the cause, but there’s no good treatment at all—like back pain, which is common but rarely helped by surgery.
Thus my frustrated wish for a robot body. I’ve seen many doctors, and my poor primary care doctor has to see me every time some new bit of research suggests to me that X or Y might help me. I go through phases where I’m sure there’s something that can be done, and then I cycle through anger, despair, acceptance, and through it all again.
Basically, I’m grieving. I can still remember that pre-illness body: riding my bike for miles in the country, just for fun; walking for hours across my undergraduate campus with friends; moving myself in and out of dorm rooms and apartments. I grieve the energy and strength I had. I didn’t have to plan my daily activities—mental as well as physical, because fatigue and pain make it hard for me to think clearly. I didn’t have to give up doing things I love, like gardening. I didn’t have to see if I could find money in the budget to pay someone to clean, weed flowerbeds, or shovel the leaves and mud out of the drain in the back yard.
I am not the person I was when I had a healthy body. I feel not only frustrated, but worthless—worth less—because I cannot do what I used to do, what I expected to be able to do in my mid-50s.
Where can I put all these feelings I have about this loss? Well, just like with any loss, I think we can put those feelings into creating art—in my case, poetry and nonfiction writing. If I had a robot body, what would I do? What would I love about it? What would I miss? How would I get through airport security?
Love the blend of honesty and whimsy! I, Robot