The fact that you stand as I sit,
And you pace as I listen.
And read how you were deferred
From yet another orthopedic surgeon.
The fact that you’re barely older than me,
With joints traumatized by dislocations.
A congenital condition like loose elastic bands,
And desire joint replacements as kids prefer lolli’s.
The fact that opioids diffuse your skin,
But don’t reach joints or your pain,
A pain that docs find hard to reach,
Whom you’ve seen multiplied.
The fact that doctors offices seem doors to you,
Come and go, and mostly go,
To another and another
Due to a frustration. Palpable.
The fact that my mental health screen
Makes you pause:
“And what if I were suicidal –
living like this?”, you ask.
But despite all these facts,
You still call your mom to cope,
You find comfort, support in your wife.
On weekends you cheer
Your kids in soccer games.
Despite all the facts,
You smile at being called a bulldog,
The tenacity, the keenness to research
Specialists far and wide,
To advocate for those joints, for yourself.
With us alongside.