I want to work.

I want to get up in the morning and slip into my scrubs. Clip my name tag to my breast pocket and reach for my favourite pen and notepad, tucked into their familiar home in my leg pocket.

I want my hair gathered into a low bun at the nape of my neck, my glasses tucked into my breast pocket, just in case. I want to enjoy one hot sip of Earl Grey tea before hitting the floor and stepping into the morning rush.

I want to see the familiar faces of the people I worked with. To exchange a smile and a good morning before we begin.

Simple little things, so easily taken for granted when you believe tomorrow will offer them again.

I miss having somewhere to be. I miss knowing what my morning would look like. I miss the familiarity of a routine I could once move through without thinking about whether my body would let me.

I never imagined how much I would long to put on those scrubs again.

So when someone says, “At least you don’t have to work,” I wonder whether they understand what they are asking me to be grateful for.

I watched summer pass through the windows.

There were days when I could almost feel the warmth just by looking outside. I thought about sitting in the sunshine, going somewhere with my husband, doing something ordinary while the weather was beautiful.

So often, the day ended before any of that happened.

Now summer has faded into fall. I look through those same windows for the vibrant colours, but barely catch a glimpse of them from here. I would love a country drive, with gold and crimson trees lining the road and nowhere urgent we needed to be.

I miss being able to have a thought like that and simply act on it.

These days, even wanting something small can hurt. There is the wish itself, followed by the quiet assessment of whether I can manage it—and the disappointment when I know I cannot.

My hands are shaking as I write this. I wish they would settle.

The pain is here too. Sometimes it eases enough for my attention to wander elsewhere; sometimes it demands nearly all of it. I have grown accustomed to making room for it, although I resent how much room it takes.

Pain has become my employer.

It decides whether the plans I made yesterday are possible today. I wake with things I want to do, only to find myself bargaining over the basics.

And somewhere in all that bargaining, I miss being Anita.

The woman who had ideas and got excited about them. Who could get ready for work, help someone else, come home, and still imagine doing something with the evening.

I know she is still here. I feel her whenever an idea catches hold, whenever I want to reach for my notebook or make plans with my family.

What hurts is feeling that familiar eagerness and having so little strength available to follow it.

I want an ordinary day so badly.

A morning in my scrubs. A warm cup of tea. A familiar voice saying good morning.

The chance to come home and tell my husband how my day went.

The exhaustion is difficult to explain.

It is there even after a night when I have managed to sleep. My body feels worn down before the day has properly begun. My thoughts take longer to gather. I have ideas, but reaching them can feel like trying to see through fog.

When the pain is especially bad, my nervous system feels as though it is on fire. The tremors leave me feeling like I have been set to vibrate, and I wait for the shaking to settle.

I am sad. Angry. Afraid. Frustrated.

Sometimes I cannot separate those feelings from one another. Sometimes I am simply too tired to try.

There is the pain itself, and then there is everything I have to carry alongside it: appointments, paperwork, uncertainty, financial fear, and the effort of explaining myself again.

I never imagined how much work could be involved in being too unwell to work.

I want to speak to the people who once depended on my willingness to keep going.

I cared about my work. I cared about the people who needed me. I wanted to do well, to contribute, to be someone others could count on.

That willingness was real. So were the concerns I raised. So were the times I pushed through because people still needed care and the work still had to be done.

I wish the urgency of needing me then had carried through to helping me now.

From an employer, I needed my concerns taken seriously. I needed support when my ability to continue began to fail. Being left feeling that I must defend my honesty, while already struggling to get through each day, has hurt in ways I am still trying to put into words.

When someone reports pain, there is a person behind that report. Someone with a family, responsibilities, and a life they are trying to preserve.

The consequences of how that person is treated do not end when a phone call finishes or a file is closed.

They come home with us.

There are things I need to say to the medical professionals, too.

I know you cannot promise a cure. I know some conditions are complicated, and answers can take time.

But I need you to understand what happens between appointments.

I go home with the symptoms. I live through the nights. I try to work out what I can safely manage while waiting for someone to tell me what comes next.

I have left some encounters feeling that the effort it took to describe my suffering was greater than the effort made to understand it.

That feeling stays with a person.

I need someone to hear what has changed in my life. To explain what is known, what remains uncertain, and what can be done next. To help me navigate the space between a recommendation and actually receiving care.

I can tell you what I feel. I can describe what I have lost. I can keep records and ask questions.

I cannot be my own clinician.

And when medication is offered, I need room to speak honestly about how it affects me. Symptom relief matters. So does being able to think clearly, remain present with my family, and recognize myself.

If something leaves me foggy, disoriented, or overwhelmingly sleepy, that deserves a conversation.

Wanting care I can tolerate is part of wanting to get better.

I am still here, trying to find a way forward. I need help doing that.

One of the hardest things to explain is what this has done to my sense of self.

I had plans. I still have them.

Stories to finish. Dreams to pursue. Things I wanted to build for my family and for myself.

Now I look at those plans through a life crowded with uncertainty. My ambition is still there, but I cannot always reach it. I miss the ease with which I once began something, trusting I could see it through.

I miss being able to help without wondering whether I will need help afterwards.

I miss showing up with something left to give.

My family still gets my love. They always will. But it hurts to have so little energy available for the people who matter most to me.

Sometimes I listen to my children while fighting to stay focused through the pain. Sometimes a few quiet moments with my husband are all I can manage.

Those moments matter deeply.

I also grieve how much harder they have become.

And then there is writing.

Writing gives me somewhere to put what I cannot keep carrying silently.

It helps me sort through fear before it overwhelms me. It gives my anger words. It allows me to recognize a part of myself that illness and uncertainty have made difficult to find.

On days when sadness threatens to swallow everything else, writing helps keep me grounded. It is one of the ways I protect my mental health and hold on to hope.

I need that.

I need somewhere I can speak honestly, without polishing my suffering into something easier for other people to hear.

Writing is part of how I cope with being unwell.

The fact that I can sometimes shape a paragraph does not tell you whether I can sustain a workday. It does not tell you how often I stopped, how much pain I was in, or whether I could continue tomorrow.

A blog post cannot measure my physical capacity.

Neither can a smile, a photograph, or a brief moment when I seem like myself.

I am allowed those moments. I need them. I should be able to enjoy a laugh with my family without fearing that someone will use it to dismiss everything else I am living through.

To anyone reading this with doubt, I ask you to leave room for what you cannot see.

You may see me on a better day. You may hear me laugh. You may read something I have written and wonder how someone who can do that could be struggling so much.

What you cannot see is the decision behind it.

What did I give up to manage this?

What happened afterwards?

How much did I want one small part of my day to feel familiar?

Before drawing a conclusion about my life, please consider how little of it any single moment can show you.

And to anyone searching these words for something to use against me: consider the weight of that choice.

There is a person here.

I am already frightened about my health, my finances, and my future. Having to worry about how an ordinary attempt to cope might be interpreted adds another burden to a life that has become difficult enough.

I want to be able to speak without feeling that honesty itself is dangerous.

Am I afraid I will not get better?

Yes.

I am afraid of how much time has passed. I am afraid of more doors closing. I am afraid of becoming so accustomed to limitation that I stop remembering what freedom felt like.

Admitting that fear takes something from me. I would much rather be able to tell you that treatment is underway, that I am improving, that I can finally see a path back.

I keep looking for that path.

I keep asking what might help. I keep trying to understand the next step. But navigating care and fighting to be heard take energy from the same small supply I need to get through the day.

I wish people understood how exhausting hope can become when it is repeatedly followed by waiting.

Still, I have a family I love. I have a future I want to take part in. I have stories left to tell and dreams I am unwilling to surrender.

Those things keep me reaching.

I know I am not the only person living this way.

I have met others trying to find their way through the same bewildering maze. People who miss their jobs. People who want treatment. People whose lives have become smaller while the demands placed on them have grown.

If that is you, I know how much effort can hide inside an ordinary day.

I know how hard it can be to explain why you managed something yesterday and cannot manage it today.

I know what it is to miss yourself.

You can love your family, appreciate a good moment, and still grieve the life you had. There is room for all of that.

There has to be.

“At least you don’t have to work.”

I wonder whether people would still say that if they could feel what fills my days.

The pain. The shaking. The waiting. The financial worry. The constant calculations. The fear that time is carrying my life further away while I struggle to catch up.

I want to work. I want to create. I want to take a country drive with my husband and come home with memories, without wondering how long I will spend recovering.

I want to be present for my children.

I want to finish my books.

I want to look forward to tomorrow.

For now, I will keep writing, a little at a time. I will stop when I need to, save what I have, and return when I can.

It helps me remember that I am still here. That there is more to me than what hurts. That somewhere in this changed life, I still have a voice.

I am using it to say what I have been trying to say all along:

I want to get better. I want a fair chance to find my way back to a life I can take part in.

Is it really too much to ask for help?

Until next time, Fairwinds Lovlies,

Always, 

Ambrose Fider