My Portrait by Angel Tagudin
Five years ago, if you asked what I thought I would be doing today, I would have told you all kind of things:
I would be pregnant (if not already a mother).
I would be published (if not at least near completion of a novel).
I would be in a new house.
I would be thriving in my business.
One thing for sure, one thing I would not be; I would not be sick.
If I were sick, it would be temporary; the stuff of colds and achy heads. I would fall, but recover; bend, but not break. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I might be too weak to lift my arms or work full-time. Never, in my worst nightmares, did I imagine I'd have something so complex that four doctors would be consulted just to start figuring out the problem.
Growing up, doctors were Gods...they had all of the answers. Now, six months into chronic illness, I view them as scholars, armed with formulas and theories, blinded by human limitations.
Today, as I look in the mirror, I barely recognize the girl I see. With curiosity, I study her features: The new lines that furrow her brow; The permanent pinkness that covers her chest; The dimple in her chin; How the corners of her mouth turn down. There is a vulnerability to her and a sadness. She no longer does her hair or wears make up. She's familiar, but strangely distant.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. When I look at mine, I no longer see myself.
Altered Today: Missing me. Time out with a friend to forget about it.