THE FIBROMATES JOURNAL

By Wendy Fleming, Guest Blogger

As I sit here at 6:30 a.m., with Mom’s balcony curtains wide open and the door cracked just enough to let in a bit of fresh air, I think: blessed is the quiet. The cars are passing, the birds are singing, but for a short time there is peace in this home. I have pain like no other today, and if I were at my own house, I’d still be in bed or on the couch, looking out our big, beautiful windows at the farmers’ fields, letting the quiet wrap around me like a hug.

But instead, I’m here — hands trembling around a warm cup of tea. I just heard Mom stir and prayed she would go back to bed for a little while longer. I need to gather my strength for the day ahead.

Soon enough she’ll be up, and the entertainment will begin. The radio will go on far too loud, drowning out her own voice, and the TV will follow with her beloved shows. The PSW is supposed to come around 9 a.m. to give her breakfast, coffee, and pills, but sometimes it’s closer to 11. Too late for breakfast, too late for medication, too late for coffee — so I make sure she gets all three.

The other day I went home for a break, leaving her with a casserole she could microwave, raisin bread, bananas, coffee, milk, and cream. But just as I walked through my own door, she called, saying she needed me. Her eye was sore, and she couldn’t get her drops in. I can barely get them in either — my hands tremble, my arms ache. My husband cursed under his breath: You’re exhausted, you can barely move, and now you’re doing laundry and packing to go back after just unpacking.

He wasn’t wrong. It was the last thing I wanted to be doing. But I’m the only one, so I go. It doesn’t matter how I feel because my mother needs me, and I’m “such a good daughter for looking after my mother and her needs.” I smile and say thank you.

I love my mother, but looking after her is too much for me. Getting her help is years down the list, and she’s only considered a crisis because a few people are ahead of her for long-term care. As much as I don’t want to see her go, it’s what she needs. Even her friends say she should have gone sooner. But Mom is always “fine,” and “my daughter can help me.” What she means is: my daughter can wait on me.

When I got back to her place, of course she hadn’t eaten properly. She didn’t see the casserole, but she saw the lemon meringue pudding cup and the ice cream bars. I heated the casserole anyway, and she happily ate.

I’ve explained to her that if she wants something from the store, it has to be in the morning. By afternoon, I’m too tired and it’s too warm. But yesterday she kept bugging me for a walk. Mom doesn’t know the word no.

So off we went in the blazing early evening heat to get a burger. I barely made it — my knees ready to give out, my head pounding, every muscle feeling beaten with a baseball bat. But whatever Mom wants.

She ordered her burger to go. I told her I needed a drink with mine and that I was eating there. She wasn’t impressed, clearly annoyed, but she stayed. I ordered and paid for mine — root beer was the only drink. She stayed silent while we waited, and I had nothing left to say. I was seeing stars and praying the burger would give me enough strength to get back.

I finished first. She said she’d finish hers at home. I wanted to sit and enjoy my drink, but instead we left. I trailed behind her, telling her to go ahead because she moves faster with her walker than I do with my cane.

Back at the apartment, I went straight to my room and stripped down to my underwear, grabbing the fan. I told her the fans were in the bedroom, but she insisted they were in the storage room. I didn’t argue. I just went to her closet, brought one out for her, put the other in my room, and sat in front of it. My body needed to cool down before I could even think about a shower.

She wasn’t happy that I wasn’t sitting out with her. But I had nothing left to give. I was fighting back tears, having taken all my medication early along with extra-strength Tylenol, praying for a miracle. She kept asking if I was alright. I told her I was fine. What’s the point of telling her the truth? She won’t listen. She can’t.

But oh, I’m such a good daughter looking after my mom.

I hear her now.

Peace has left, and life begins yet again.

About the Author: Wendy Fleming  was born and raised in London, Ontario. She currently lives in Aylmer with my husband of 30 years. They have three daughters. She loves expressing herself with words and is in the process of publishing her first book and writing and revising her second. She also loves teaching others to live their best life with chronic illness.

By Irene Roth/Blog Editor

There are seasons in life when energy feels abundant—when ideas flow, movement feels natural, and the day opens with possibility. But there are also quieter seasons, especially for those living with chronic conditions, when energy feels fragile, limited, or unpredictable. In those moments, energy renewal becomes not just helpful, but essential.

Energy renewal is not about pushing harder or finding ways to do more. It is about learning how to return to yourself—gently, compassionately, and without judgment. It is about listening to your body and honoring what it tells you, even when that message is to pause.

For many of us, especially those navigating fibromyalgia or chronic fatigue, energy does not come in steady waves. It arrives in pockets—small, precious windows of possibility. The key is not to stretch those windows until they disappear, but to work with them wisely. To ask: what matters most in this moment? What can I do that nourishes rather than depletes?

Renewal often begins with awareness. Notice when your energy begins to shift. Is there a subtle heaviness in your limbs? A tightening in your shoulders? A fog settling into your thoughts? These are not inconveniences to ignore—they are signals, invitations to slow down and recalibrate.

There is a quiet strength in responding early, in choosing rest before exhaustion overtakes you. This kind of awareness can transform your days. Instead of crashing into stillness, you step into it with intention.

Nature offers us a beautiful model for renewal. The trees do not bloom all year. They rest, they release, they gather their strength in unseen ways before returning to fullness. Cherry blossoms, in particular, remind us of the beauty of briefness. They bloom brilliantly, and then they let go. There is no striving, no overreaching—just a natural rhythm of expression and rest.

We, too, are allowed that rhythm.

Energy renewal can take many forms, and it does not have to be complicated. It may be as simple as sitting quietly with a cup of tea, feeling the warmth in your hands. It may be stepping outside for a few moments of fresh air, letting the sunlight touch your face. It may be closing your eyes and taking a few slow, intentional breaths.

It can also be creative. Writing a few lines in a journal, doodling, listening to music, or simply allowing your mind to wander without direction. These moments are not unproductive—they are restorative. They help replenish the inner reserves that constant activity drains.

One of the most important aspects of renewal is releasing guilt. Many of us have been taught that rest must be earned, that productivity defines worth. But this belief is deeply limiting. Rest is not a reward—it is a necessity. Without it, there is no sustainable energy to draw from.

When you allow yourself to rest without guilt, something shifts. You begin to trust your body rather than fight it. You begin to see rest not as an interruption, but as part of the rhythm of a meaningful life.

Energy renewal is also about boundaries. It means recognizing when something is too much and giving yourself permission to step back. It means saying no when needed, even when it feels difficult. Protecting your energy is not selfish—it is an act of self-respect.

Over time, these small acts of renewal create a larger transformation. You begin to feel more grounded, more present, more in tune with your own needs. Life may still be busy, but it no longer feels overwhelming in the same way.

Instead of constantly chasing energy, you begin to cultivate it.

And perhaps most importantly, you begin to understand that renewal is not something you find outside yourself. It is something you create, moment by moment, through attention, care, and compassion.

So today, ask yourself: what would it look like to renew my energy, even just a little?

And then, gently, begin.

By Heather Walton, Guest Blogger

I ventured out to the garden today. It was such a bleak day, and I was beginning to think it was not the smartest move on my part, for the brisk breeze whisked me along the path like a winter’s castoff. Trembling bushes leaned away from the frosty blast, and shivering leaves littered my way to the patch as I pulled the collar up on my old ratty sweater.

Brrr! Forgotten vines choked my muddy steps as I slogged along, and too late I spied the rake. It leapt up at me as I stamped down hard on the flagstone and nearly sent my cricketty self back into the rusty gate I had just wrestled open!

Who was I kidding? Today was not the day for frolics in the garden. I gazed dismally at the untidy edges of my plot. In the rearview mirror of my mind, I could see last summer’s perfectly planted rows of merrily nodding beans, and greens, taters, and tomatoes; but winter had tromped on fall, and now my garden resembled my bent and brittle self, with tomato cages askew and weeds that had weathered the winter just fine. They were budding cheerily between haphazard onion sets and timid garlic sprouts.

Well… what to do, where to start? Like every task that seems too big for me to face, I sank to my knees in the mud to get a different perspective. And that’s when I saw her. A tiny bobbing spot of yellow among the brown decaying foliage. It was a dandelion! She was tucked into the miry clay, bravely shining forth with joyous abandon!

And suddenly being on my knees made perfect sense. This little spring bloom was summer’s promise. What a gift! I forgot to be miffed at the weather and the wild wind. Leaning up to her brave, fuzzy head, I smiled back at this bobbing nodding bloom of wonder.

I’m not sure how much I’ll plant this year, but not to worry! I’ll certainly have all the dandelion leaves I need for my salads. Sometimes, all it takes is a different view to see what a blessing has been there all the time.

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