“Must I?” she asked. “Do I have to even think about it?”
The pain in her voice was obvious and I thought of her hands, crippled by arthritis, clawing at the blanket.
Cramps in my hands that don’t allow me to write and aches in my legs that don’t allow me to run. I cannot stand to long without needing to sit. It is a hell all to its own that traps me in immobility until I can no longer bear to count the specks on my wall or the cracks in my floor.
I ran threw the woods carefully and quickly. My knee was killing me, but I knew that if I stopped it would hurt worse tomorrow. As I circled the tree and pushed on I coul
My Grandmother has arthritis in her hands and in her knee. She has trouble walking now. She used to be so active. Trudging up stairs, tending to the garden of her condo estate. circling around the mall before the stores open every morning. But now she needs knee surgery. And that scares me. She has fallen into depression, and she’s let herself go. She’s given up. And that scares me. She’s always so tired.
My father has horrible arthritis. He always complains and says it hurts. We try very hard to help him work through the pain. He always tries hard. My Daddy never lets his arthritis stop him from doing great things and being who he is. He wont let anything stop him.
bones crackling.
minds numbing.
the thoughts of youth succumbing
to ancient days
of tooth decay
and rambling chats on porch swings
with tea in hand
and babies at your feet
wondering how your toes curve and bend
into the warped wood beneath them.
I hope that sitting over these keys won’t cramp my style down the line. I plan on being around for quite some time, but what does it mean if I can’t keep myself going because of the very thing that keeps me going? Shit’s kind of funny like that I guess.
that’s what i have in my heart in my hands i see it in my future there it as all across me i wear it like a map which implies some connection to the without myself this is a lie i am the whole arthritis and that is how i perpetuate so
I feel like I have arthritis of the mind today. The fun of the weekend and lack of sleep have resulted in a calcification of my thoughts today. Now moving from one idea to the next is slow and laborious, like an old man stepping through a set of tires. Slow, painful, and laborious.
Sounds painful, wouldnt want it myself. Worry that I do sometimes but I think that clicking your joints thing is a myth and it wont really contribute to it. Something that old people get, then again with the amount of people using keyboards etc maybe its alot more common than id like to think so. Can’t really think of anything else, medical condition
She was old and broken and hurt. Her ankles were sore and so was her heart. He left her. Why? She did not know. Was it nature? Was it god? Was it really necessary? Warmth helped her ankle, but what should heal her heart?
arthritis is the way to go. people have it. i don’t. but the world will one day see it go away. medicine gets better every day. surgery solves some issues. life will one day be great for sufferers of today. we will live to see this happen, too. here’s to their success.
I think my mother has arthritis. She is always complaining that her hands are stiff and she can hardly move them. I hope that I don’t have this problem and its not hereditary because I feel the symptoms at times. This would be horrible.
The arthritis was sure to slow him down — but he wouldn’t let that stop him. It was simple. He saw one word at the top of the screen. He had sixty seconds to write about it. When he clicked go, the page loaded with the cursor in place. He didn’t think; he just wrote.
His gnarled, twisted hands gently touched hers. A small tear slid down her cheek, and the doctor continued.
He knew that it was tough for her to have to help him with little things because of his arthritis–having to reach up to the top shelf to get him his daily applesauce or to reach up to grab his shirts–but she always did it every day without complaint. It was one of the reasons that he had married her in the first place–her dependability.
And, now the doctor was telling her that she was going to be debilitated by a horrible curse. Alzheimer’s. Without another word, the doctor turned and left. She collapsed into my arms, and began to cry. Just like she had done when they told us about my crippling arthritis that would make it impossible for me to even clothe myself.
But, no matter how sad the news was, there was no way I could ever cry. For I knew that her love had helped me grow and improve as a man. And, now it was her turn.
I would do whatever it takes to make sure that she will not lose her memory of us. And to help her grow.
my mother’s limbs are sundials and her hands are compasses pointing always towards the colour of springtime. I am not water, and I wonder how it and mirrors can be seen as colours, especially in fun-houses when all concept of time and personhood become mangled and distorted.
I do not like this word either because this illness is real to me.
My bones cry with pain while my mind screams for the agony to end, and yet my fingers, gnarled and knobby, continue to clutch the wooden pen as my hand shakes its way frantically across the page in one last, desperate attempt to tell you in my last moments with a heavy, dying heart, that I’m sorry.
A world beater, his record still stood; and not some trivial achievement like eating the most sausages in a minute or stuffing the greatest quantity of slugs in your pants, no, Brian was once a great athlete, but now, time had claimed another victim and all the suppleness he once displayed was replaced with the contortions of arthritis.
Everything was sore, her hands moved at half their usual pace. It felt like her bones were screaming as her fingers jumped across the ivory. She always played through the pain.
Arthritis in my iris. Oh my god it hurts! How did I get arthritis in my eye? oh my! It won’t stop can’t stop gotta keep going until my eye just dies! Alright, ok, can’t stop it. Now what? I guess I’ll just drop it. On the floor, no more, eye can’t you see I’m not high.
Some live with the bane of arthritis and believe that their is no way out. They believe that once having acquired this degenerative disease that they are condemned to ensure its existence forever after. It is not so there is an escape there is a cure.
arthritis is super gay because it makes your joints ache when you beat your wee wee too much. It makes the wee wee all tender cuz you have to grip it tighter with your hand cuz your hand hurts to hold it like normal. SO, when you beat your wee wee with arthritis fingers the pain transfers miraculously and thermogenically into the penile tip. The end :D
She looked down at her old hands. Hands that she had once considered pretty and now she could only consider experienced. She could feel the pains arthritis as if signifying the overuse of these useful tools over the years.
“This isn’t the life for me, living until I’m old, until arthritis cripples my limbs and destroys my mind. I’m meant to live and die LONG before that ever happens.”
“How can you say something like that so casually?”
I shrugged. “Because to me, it’s just fact. It just is.”
Arthritis. Something that conquers even the greatest of beings. It comes at a time to those who have already weakened. And even as a younger being can be developed. Is there a way to stop this disease that stops us from being? Although there is medication, that only lasts for a short period of time. Not long enough to even forget that you aren’t what you once were. This is something that is no good for us, unless it keeps those who are no good from causing more harm. So is arthritis a friend or a foe? Maybe both.
Arthritis. Something that conquers even the greatest of beings. It comes at a time to those who have already weakened. And even as a younger being can be developed. Is there a way to stop this disease that stops us from being? Although there is medication, that only lasts for a short period of time. Not long enough to even forget that you aren’t what you once were. This is something that is no good for us, unless it keeps those who are no good from causing more harm. So is arthritis a friend or a foe? Maybe both.
Starting in her joints, moving through her body. Her muscles, bones sacrificed to age. Her mind was safe, her mind a crown atop the ruins that became her.
Her hands ached the arthritis morning, but it didn’t stop her from fixing him the breakfast she’d fixed him the last 60 years. She just had to be careful not to wince or drop everything in his lap. Her gnarled hands set his plate in front of him and kissed him on the top of his head. “Hear you go sweetie, eggs just the way you like them.”
Her hands were swollen at the knuckles and joints. She folded them in her lap, they were warm and covered with age spots. Though her hands were idle know, they worked hard to knit blankets for her grand babies and pull weeds from her garden.
The torpid movements are not me. My hand once flew over pages, drew magnificent lines, worked with colors, touched with utter sensuality. I once held time in my fingertips, but not anymore.
“Must I?” she asked. “Do I have to even think about it?”
The pain in her voice was obvious and I thought of her hands, crippled by arthritis, clawing at the blanket.
Cramps in my hands that don’t allow me to write and aches in my legs that don’t allow me to run. I cannot stand to long without needing to sit. It is a hell all to its own that traps me in immobility until I can no longer bear to count the specks on my wall or the cracks in my floor.
I ran threw the woods carefully and quickly. My knee was killing me, but I knew that if I stopped it would hurt worse tomorrow. As I circled the tree and pushed on I coul
My Grandmother has arthritis in her hands and in her knee. She has trouble walking now. She used to be so active. Trudging up stairs, tending to the garden of her condo estate. circling around the mall before the stores open every morning. But now she needs knee surgery. And that scares me. She has fallen into depression, and she’s let herself go. She’s given up. And that scares me. She’s always so tired.
My father has horrible arthritis. He always complains and says it hurts. We try very hard to help him work through the pain. He always tries hard. My Daddy never lets his arthritis stop him from doing great things and being who he is. He wont let anything stop him.
Writer’s block is a form of authoritis.
Grandparents getting pains in the cold, mom telling me not to crack my knuckles for for fear of being like them. Knees, ankles, wrists, fingers.
bones crackling.
minds numbing.
the thoughts of youth succumbing
to ancient days
of tooth decay
and rambling chats on porch swings
with tea in hand
and babies at your feet
wondering how your toes curve and bend
into the warped wood beneath them.
It happens to old people. There’s no cure to this sickness. There is no knowledge about its cause.
a real annoyance, a genuine ailment. varying in severity, rusty joints and woven pain. deepens sorrow on the worst days
I hope that sitting over these keys won’t cramp my style down the line. I plan on being around for quite some time, but what does it mean if I can’t keep myself going because of the very thing that keeps me going? Shit’s kind of funny like that I guess.
that’s what i have in my heart in my hands i see it in my future there it as all across me i wear it like a map which implies some connection to the without myself this is a lie i am the whole arthritis and that is how i perpetuate so
I feel like I have arthritis of the mind today. The fun of the weekend and lack of sleep have resulted in a calcification of my thoughts today. Now moving from one idea to the next is slow and laborious, like an old man stepping through a set of tires. Slow, painful, and laborious.
Sounds painful, wouldnt want it myself. Worry that I do sometimes but I think that clicking your joints thing is a myth and it wont really contribute to it. Something that old people get, then again with the amount of people using keyboards etc maybe its alot more common than id like to think so. Can’t really think of anything else, medical condition
I climbed the tree.But my hands didn’t want to cooperate.They hurt like hell,and didn’t want to grip.
I have arthritis of the brain.
She was old and broken and hurt. Her ankles were sore and so was her heart. He left her. Why? She did not know. Was it nature? Was it god? Was it really necessary? Warmth helped her ankle, but what should heal her heart?
arthritis is the way to go. people have it. i don’t. but the world will one day see it go away. medicine gets better every day. surgery solves some issues. life will one day be great for sufferers of today. we will live to see this happen, too. here’s to their success.
I think my mother has arthritis. She is always complaining that her hands are stiff and she can hardly move them. I hope that I don’t have this problem and its not hereditary because I feel the symptoms at times. This would be horrible.
The arthritis was sure to slow him down — but he wouldn’t let that stop him. It was simple. He saw one word at the top of the screen. He had sixty seconds to write about it. When he clicked go, the page loaded with the cursor in place. He didn’t think; he just wrote.
His gnarled, twisted hands gently touched hers. A small tear slid down her cheek, and the doctor continued.
He knew that it was tough for her to have to help him with little things because of his arthritis–having to reach up to the top shelf to get him his daily applesauce or to reach up to grab his shirts–but she always did it every day without complaint. It was one of the reasons that he had married her in the first place–her dependability.
And, now the doctor was telling her that she was going to be debilitated by a horrible curse. Alzheimer’s. Without another word, the doctor turned and left. She collapsed into my arms, and began to cry. Just like she had done when they told us about my crippling arthritis that would make it impossible for me to even clothe myself.
But, no matter how sad the news was, there was no way I could ever cry. For I knew that her love had helped me grow and improve as a man. And, now it was her turn.
I would do whatever it takes to make sure that she will not lose her memory of us. And to help her grow.
Crack! Well, there goes the pinky. Now I only have 2 left. Thumb and middle finger, don’t fail me now!
my mother’s limbs are sundials and her hands are compasses pointing always towards the colour of springtime. I am not water, and I wonder how it and mirrors can be seen as colours, especially in fun-houses when all concept of time and personhood become mangled and distorted.
I do not like this word either because this illness is real to me.
My bones cry with pain while my mind screams for the agony to end, and yet my fingers, gnarled and knobby, continue to clutch the wooden pen as my hand shakes its way frantically across the page in one last, desperate attempt to tell you in my last moments with a heavy, dying heart, that I’m sorry.
A world beater, his record still stood; and not some trivial achievement like eating the most sausages in a minute or stuffing the greatest quantity of slugs in your pants, no, Brian was once a great athlete, but now, time had claimed another victim and all the suppleness he once displayed was replaced with the contortions of arthritis.
Everything was sore, her hands moved at half their usual pace. It felt like her bones were screaming as her fingers jumped across the ivory. She always played through the pain.
Arthritis in my iris. Oh my god it hurts! How did I get arthritis in my eye? oh my! It won’t stop can’t stop gotta keep going until my eye just dies! Alright, ok, can’t stop it. Now what? I guess I’ll just drop it. On the floor, no more, eye can’t you see I’m not high.
Some live with the bane of arthritis and believe that their is no way out. They believe that once having acquired this degenerative disease that they are condemned to ensure its existence forever after. It is not so there is an escape there is a cure.
arthritis is super gay because it makes your joints ache when you beat your wee wee too much. It makes the wee wee all tender cuz you have to grip it tighter with your hand cuz your hand hurts to hold it like normal. SO, when you beat your wee wee with arthritis fingers the pain transfers miraculously and thermogenically into the penile tip. The end :D
She looked down at her old hands. Hands that she had once considered pretty and now she could only consider experienced. She could feel the pains arthritis as if signifying the overuse of these useful tools over the years.
“This isn’t the life for me, living until I’m old, until arthritis cripples my limbs and destroys my mind. I’m meant to live and die LONG before that ever happens.”
“How can you say something like that so casually?”
I shrugged. “Because to me, it’s just fact. It just is.”
Arthritis. Something that conquers even the greatest of beings. It comes at a time to those who have already weakened. And even as a younger being can be developed. Is there a way to stop this disease that stops us from being? Although there is medication, that only lasts for a short period of time. Not long enough to even forget that you aren’t what you once were. This is something that is no good for us, unless it keeps those who are no good from causing more harm. So is arthritis a friend or a foe? Maybe both.
Arthritis. Something that conquers even the greatest of beings. It comes at a time to those who have already weakened. And even as a younger being can be developed. Is there a way to stop this disease that stops us from being? Although there is medication, that only lasts for a short period of time. Not long enough to even forget that you aren’t what you once were. This is something that is no good for us, unless it keeps those who are no good from causing more harm. So is arthritis a friend or a foe? Maybe both.
I hope I never get arthritis.
Starting in her joints, moving through her body. Her muscles, bones sacrificed to age. Her mind was safe, her mind a crown atop the ruins that became her.
Arthirtis is a aim. Old people have this, younger – rarely
Like we weren’t fucked up enough already.
Her hands ached the arthritis morning, but it didn’t stop her from fixing him the breakfast she’d fixed him the last 60 years. She just had to be careful not to wince or drop everything in his lap. Her gnarled hands set his plate in front of him and kissed him on the top of his head. “Hear you go sweetie, eggs just the way you like them.”
Her hands were swollen at the knuckles and joints. She folded them in her lap, they were warm and covered with age spots. Though her hands were idle know, they worked hard to knit blankets for her grand babies and pull weeds from her garden.
The torpid movements are not me. My hand once flew over pages, drew magnificent lines, worked with colors, touched with utter sensuality. I once held time in my fingertips, but not anymore.