10 Ways to Handle Major Life Changes with a Chronic Illness

It’s been a long summer, but I’m finally back after moving to a different town. Life is great at my new place: big yard, comfy basement, friendly neighbors. I even have the Lego room I’ve always wanted.

Maybe not quite as awesome as Jeffrey Pelletier's Lego room, but I'll take it.
Image credit: Houzz on YouTube

But you know, moving sucks. From digging up all the useless junk you’ve forgotten about in your closet (a Lego Mania Magazine from 1999? Sweet!), to hunting down everyone who needs your new address (I could call the power company, but my ancestors didn’t have to talk to anyone and they did just fine without electricity), to having all your friends and family find out you didn’t get rid of all that junk in your closet when they come to help you load your truck (sorry guys), the whole process is a nightmare.

And doing it with a chronic illness? Welcome to Hell, my friends.

I live with ankylosing spondylitis, a form of arthritis that fuses the spine and does a lot of other crazy stuff, too. If my disease were a novel, its elevator pitch would sound something like “A young man wakes up trapped inside an eighty-year-old’s body.” But tying my own shoes feels like a major accomplishment most days, too, so I’m also, like, five.

I'm also a skeleton!
Image credit: His Perfect Timing

One thing I do appreciate about my illness, at least, is the way it’s helped me learn to sympathize with other people's pain. I know how hard it is to carry on a daily routine when everything hurts, and that’s just the small stuff. A major life change--even a good one, like a new job, a new relationship, or, in my case, a new home--can easily send you into a tailspin.

But I’m here to help. Here are ten ways you can handle major life changes with a chronic illness:

1. Don’t skip your treatment

Before our move, my family and I spent a couple weeks on projects to get the new house ready. Even when messy things like paint or dust were in the day’s plans, I still showered every morning. Pointless? Maybe if the point was to get clean. But nothing loosens up my joints like fifteen minutes underneath a hot stream of water.

Whether you take pills or attend a yoga class, make the time to treat your illness. It may seem easier to skip your morning stretches, tea, or meditation when you have an extra hectic day ahead, but it will just be harder in the long run.

2. Pace yourself

Any major change in life requires lots of work. Even following a treatment plan, you can wear yourself out easily, and the extra stress can lead to flare-ups and other complications. If possible, give yourself time to slow down: relax with a book on your lunch break; set the wedding date far enough ahead to allow for less frantic preparation; pack a box or two each day several months before your move.

I started packing things in May and it still wasn’t early enough. If your situation will accommodate it, plan for a slower pace than you think you’ll need.

3. Eat well

Eating well does not mean eating a lot. If you have to push yourself so hard you miss a mealtime or two, at least get the right foods when you do eat. If possible, stick to the diet your body is used to (especially if you already eat healthy for your condition). My family doesn’t eat out too often anymore, so after a few days of greasy takeout during the move, my tired body thanked me when I finally had an apple. You can tell the difference, and so can your illness.

4. Drink water

This goes hand-in-hand with eating well, but it deserves its own spot on the list because it’s so dang important. Water aids in crucial things like digestion, circulation, and transportation of nutrients. It also lubricates the joints, which I especially appreciate. Your body is about sixty percent water, so if you want to feel more like yourself, drink more water!

Image credit: TheSquareComics

5. Get some sleep

I get it: you’re in the middle of a major event in your life. On top of that, you’re treating your illness, making time to slow down, eating well, and drinking water. You’ll sleep when you’re dead, right?

Wrong.

Sleep is the body’s chance to heal. A good night’s sleep can boost your mood, strengthen your immune system, and even heighten your pain threshold (assuming you’re not already in too much pain to sleep--truly a vicious cycle). I guarantee it’s some of the most pleasant medicine you’ll ever take.

6. Keep your doctor in the loop

A change in life may call for a change in treatment. If you see a doctor for your illness, let him or her know what’s going on in your life and don’t hesitate to ask questions. And if your changing situation requires finding a new doctor, do it fast! I attribute much of my success as a missionary in Texas to finding myself a great rheumatologist almost as soon as I landed. You definitely want someone on your side who understands your condition on a professional level.

7. Don’t be afraid to ask for help . . .

Even without a disease, there’s no way I could have made my move on my own. With a disease, there’s no way I should have tried to do it on my own. The friends and family who helped me paint the house, replace electrical outlets, load the moving truck, watch the kids, clean the apartment, and even pack the stuff I couldn’t get to didn’t only save my sanity--they saved my health, too.

It’s okay if the changes in your life take a village to complete. If the people who help you didn’t love you, they probably wouldn’t help you anyway.

8. . . . but find ways to still be useful

I don’t have the words to express my gratitude to everyone who helped my family and me move into our new home. Our friends and family have truly gone above and beyond this summer, and I love them even more for it.

But tip 7 on this list is just as much for me as it is for anyone, because I always feel guilty asking for help. Especially when my arthritis flares up and sends me out of commission, it’s hard for me to feel good about myself when others are helping and I can’t work alongside them.

Finding other ways to be useful can help combat that guilt. For example, I got to help watch my niece while her mom painted bedrooms in my house. When we needed more paint or other supplies, I drove to Home Depot for it. Maybe I just contributed in small ways, but those things needed doing and I was able to do them. Finding those things makes it easier to ask for help without feeling guilty.

9. Focus on the good things that aren’t changing

A lot can change in only one event. A new home, for example, can also mean a new neighborhood, new friends, maybe even a new climate. It’s enough to throw anyone off, but getting used to all the changes can be especially troublesome to someone fighting chronic illness. Anchoring yourself to what hasn’t changed can help you keep your bearings as you navigate everything that’s new.

For example, our first night in the new house, we picked up Wendy’s for dinner and I pointed out that the food was still the same. Same chicken nuggets, same Frosty, same Junior Bacon Cheeseburger--we could still enjoy Wendy’s. In fact, we live close enough to our old place that we still visit the same Wendy's we used before. That’s just a small thing, but every little bit adds up. Many of the important things have remained the same, too, though; we still have our friends, our extended family, and each other.

I’ve adjusted to this new chapter in life much more easily as I’ve focused on those things. And that adjustment has made it easier for me to stick with my treatment, too, since I’m less distracted by what’s different.

Ahh, feels like home.
Image credit: Wendy's

10. Be kind to yourself

As my limitations grow, so does my tendency to get down on myself. It’s even easier to wallow in self-pity during a major life change. I felt bad making my in-laws paint my house. I felt bad making my neighbors clear my bookshelves. I felt bad making my friends clean my kitchen. Yes, they did it because they care; yes, I’m grateful for the help; and yes, if I ever needed anything again, I know without any doubt they would volunteer.

But I had the thought repeatedly throughout the moving process, “I am the worst person in the world.”

And it happens when people aren’t helping me move, too. I think it when I have to cancel plans because my daily fight with my disease has left me exhausted. I think it when I wake up stiff and make my family late for things. I think it when I hurt too much to get down on the floor and play with my kids.

Of course I know I’m not the worst person in the world. There have been worse people than me; Hitler comes to mind.

But it’s easy to think that when you’re sick. I know I’m not the only one.

Making changes in life is hard enough without beating yourself up. So be kind to yourself. Remind yourself that other people help you because they love you. Find things you can do with your disease and don’t let go of them. It’ll make not just whatever change you’re making easier, but everything that comes after, too.

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Got any other tips for managing a chronic illness? Ideas to make life changes easier? Share them in the comments!

How Failure Made My Writing Stronger

Graduation season is upon us. To all of you who wear the cap and gown this year, congratulations! Your happy Facebook pictures with your diplomas and leis make me smile, and though I may not be there with you, I celebrate you in my heart.

It takes me back to my own college graduation just two years ago.

I crossed the finish line of that last semester like an exhausted racehorse, limping, panting, in last place but glad to make it to the end. I commuted more than sixty miles every day for class. I had a one-year-old at home and my wife was pregnant with our second child. Our only income came from a single summer and some Fridays I spent cutting grass at another university.

I was ready to be done with school and find a new job. My family was ready, too.

So I marched in the procession with my head held high. A pipe band led my fellow graduates and me across the college campus, past cheering lines of berobed professors, and into the packed arena where our friends and families waited and the university orchestra pounded out Pomp and Circumstance. My heart raced with the dizzying perfection of the moment. This was it. I had finished college, and everything looked up from here.

Different graduation, but I look better in this one anyway.

Except I didn't graduate.

Final grades went up a few days after the celebration. And instead of a diploma, I received a D in playwriting.

That dealt a devastating blow. After countless hours researching and drafting and revising everything from poetry to annotated bibliographies; sleepless nights forcing out coherent sentences with five tabs open on my browser and three books open on my kitchen table; early mornings on cold train platforms and long days away from my family; I came out empty handed.

I let myself down. I let my family down. What were we going to do now?

So I did what I assume all sensible people do when they fail at life. I wallowed in self-pity for a few days. Applied for what few writing jobs might take me. Hooked myself up to an ice cream IV drip.

Mmm, chocolate.
Image credit: Ketamine Advocacy Network

But I didn't come this far to fail. My wife and I looked at summer classes. The college offered the one course I had wanted to take but never had room for in my schedule. It would satisfy my final graduation requirement, and we had just enough money left for me to enroll in it.

The first day of the summer semester after I should have graduated, I walked into my advanced creative nonfiction writing class and hoped no one would notice me. I shouldn't have been there, not with failure stamped in bold letters on my forehead. I sat in the back and busied myself with my notebook.

It didn't take long, though, before I realized not graduating in the spring was the best thing that could have happened to me. I believe I grew more as a writer in that one semester than I did in all the years before it. The writers I surrounded myself with that summer helped me open up and give more to my readers, unpack scenes and savor every moment on the page, and embrace even the dark parts of my story and myself.

At the end of the class, I received my diploma. But I gained more than that. Like a phoenix from its ashes, I came out of failure a stronger writer than I'd ever been before.

Selfie
Image credit: Salvador Davila

Writers deal with failure all the time. We might get halfway through a draft before we realize the story's going nowhere. We might get piles of rejection letters before we see our work anywhere in print. Readers might leave negative reviews online.

And that's all good. Because nothing forces you to grow like failure.

Rejection is a gift. Negative reviews are gold. Think of them as opportunities to learn: to make your writing sharper, your stories bolder, your voice more yours.

But failure isn't just for writers. Sane people fail sometimes, too. And good for them!

Maybe you didn't get that promotion. Maybe your mother came over before you could clean. Maybe you miscalculated the trajectory of that shuttle launch and sent a whole crew of astronauts hurtling through the eternal void of space.

This is a great chance for you to learn something. You're gonna grow so much--just you wait and see! Someday you'll be glad this happened.

I know now if I could change the past and earn a higher grade in playwriting, I wouldn't do it. Not with everything that failure gave me.

What's With the Whole "Sly Pig" Thing?

I'm halfway through my sophomore year of high school. And it's dead silent in my debate class.

Our teacher, Mr. Hawkes, sits up front and center, facing the class in a borrowed desk and marking the roll while we research our speeches for a coming tournament. He exemplifies what I at fifteen think an intellectual might look and act like. Daily he engages us in political and philosophical discussion. He uses poetry to teach us verbal presentation. He's studying for law school and gives the class a practice LSAT. He wears long hair, plays chess at lunch, and is known affectionately to students as the Vegan Ninja.

Several minutes pass and Mr. Hawkes looks up from his roll. Out of nowhere, he shatters the silence.

"Oh, I get it!" he announces. "Sly Pig!"

And then he laughs. Hard. And we laugh with him--for a solid minute.

Image credit: Know Your Meme

I've grown to enjoy people's random light bulb moments as they've figured out my nickname. By this point in the school year, I've stopped explaining it. It's much more fun to see my friends and teachers get it on their own.

But it hasn't always been that way. Do you know how annoying a name like Cunningham can be when you're growing up?

My earliest memories of elementary school include classmates, each in turn, having a stroke of genius and saying, every single nose-picking time, "Your name is Cutting Ham! Get it? Cutting? Ham?"

Then they'd giggle in triumph, as if they'd just sailed from Spain and discovered the New World without knowing the whole rest of the class, like the Vikings, beat them to it before recess.

"Cutting Ham! Get it? Cutting? Ham?"
Image Credit: Architect of the Capitol

I'm not just talking kindergarten, either. In sixth grade I still ran into truly clever souls on the playground who shouted, "Hey, it's Nathan Cutting Ham! Get it? Cutting? Ham?"

And I'd laugh, because I'd never heard it before, so it was hilarious.

Kids these days get points for originality, though. After we got married, my wife went back to her job as a kindergarten aide and one student called her "Mrs. Candy Cane." I had to appreciate that one just for being new. It was January; the kid probably still had some Christmas candy left.

The kids at school would have never guessed the proud history of the Cunningham name: how we fought for Scottish independence in the fourteenth century; how we received earldom in the late fifteenth century; how the great Scottish poet, Robert Burns, composed a passionate tribute to his patron, James Cunningham. Man, we even had some castles. Freaking castles.

Finlaystone Castle, historic seat of the Cunningham Earls of Glencairn
Image credit: Geograph

But sure, whatever. I like the taste of ham. And Heaven knows I've cut my fair share of it over the years. That Cutting Ham thing just got old, though--before I even reached first grade.

Maybe that's why I adopted a new nickname with such enthusiasm after I turned twelve. For whatever reason, the boys in my Scout troop at the time liked to call each other by their last names. So we had a Schultz. A Brenk. A Porter and some Danielses. I don't know what it was about my name--maybe it was just too long--but right away the other boys went to work improving on it. As all good Scouts will do.

So Sly Pig was born. And if you haven't figured out the play on words by now, just think cunning ham. Feeling stupid? Don't; it took a committee of clever Boy Scouts to come up with it. And man, was it a refreshing change from Cutting Ham!

I ran with the new nickname. By ninth grade, I had not just friends, but teachers calling me Sly Pig. In high school it became my email address and every online username. During senior year, a friend gave me a stuffed Sly Pig, complete with scheming eyebrows. And after graduation, I slapped the name onto personalized license plates and hit the town.

I suspect if I had let it go on longer, I might have tried to make a little cash on t-shirts, mugs, and bumper stickers. But contrary to popular belief, I don't snort or play in the mud. Eventually I had to cool the Sly Pig thing down a little.

And yet, after all the nicknames I've been given since then--and I've had some good ones, like Clever Bacon and Stunningham--nothing's ever beaten Sly Pig.

So I hold on to it. Use it online. Give it to my website and explain myself to visitors.

'Cause hey--it sure beats Cutting Ham.

I Promise I Don't Have a Lego Problem

The day my wife and I got married, her family followed us home to carry all our gifts up the three flights of stairs to our apartment.

We'd moved in just a week before. Washed and put away our dishes. Set up a card table in our dining room. Selected tributes in a lottery to deliver our massive antique piano. But we still weren't totally unpacked.

My wife's younger siblings noticed the boxes stacked halfway to the ceiling in our bedroom. "Know what's in all those?" my wife said. "That's just Nathan's Lego."

Their eyes got as big as Lego baseplates.

We had regular visitors after that.

Image credit: CinemaBlend

I've gotten a wide range of reactions when I've opened up about my Lego addiction. I've gotten even more diverse reactions when people have seen the size of my collection for the first time: awe from some, eye rolls from others.

But the one question people ask whether they think I should be high-fived or institutionalized is: Do you have a freaking problem?

And, naturally, I get all defensive and threaten them with Kragle.

I've blogged before about how liking something should be enough reason to enjoy it. But the reasons for my choice of hobby go beyond just liking it. Lego isn't a mere toy to me; it's an outlet for expression, and it always has been.

For third grade writing assignments I drew inspiration from stories I read about characters like Johnny Thunder in Lego Mania Magazine. I played out the things I wrote with Lego sets I had at home.

Image credit: miniland.nl

In sixth and seventh grade I built scenes and wrote a script that would become a novel and push me toward higher goals for many years to come. To this day I still use Lego to help me describe characters and scenes, or create brand new ones.

In high school I expressed my faith through Lego models of selected scripture stories. I got to share this project with the world thanks to the Internet, and on top of all the pleasant conversations it inspired, it found recognition in my Church's popular media.

Lego also helped me in my English classes. It got easier to focus on assigned reading like Huckleberry Finn and The Great Gatsby when I imagined how I could build each scene in Lego.

Spoiler alert.

But why not express myself through charcoal, paint, or clay?

Other than the obvious explanation that I suck at every other form of visual art, I can reuse Lego. I can build whatever I want, snap some pictures, take it all apart, and start on something else--all without regular trips to the craft store, goopy messes, or running out of room to display my work.

You might say Lego actually saves me space and money. I don't really have a problem.

Lies! All lies!

Okay, so I may have sold a kidney to afford an Ultimate Collector Series Millennium Falcon and leased a second apartment just to keep my Lego in.

But it's all about the art. I promise I don't have a problem.

That Time I Made a Promise to an Imaginary Friend in My Living Room Because That's What I Do

You have to be at least a little crazy if you want to be a writer. That's the only way you'll listen when your characters show up to talk to you.

And they will show up to talk to you. If you spend enough time in their world, I guarantee you it will happen. Thanks to a novel I've been working on for more than half my life, I have friends in my head who I've known longer than most of my friends in real life. They're real to me; we visit often.

Enough, at least, that I can make Lego versions of them.

Even though I usually extend the invitation first, every now and then my characters drop in unannounced. It usually happens when I'm showering or trying to go to sleep, but a recent encounter happened in my living room with the Enchanted soundtrack playing.

"Hey, I like this song," the character said.

"Oh, hi Philo," I said. "I didn't see you come in. Yeah, isn't the piano part great?"

"It's something I would play. Just, uh, so you know." (In my novel, Philo works with other entertainers as a piano accompanist, but he really wants to be recognized as a great pianist on his own.)

"Consider it done. I know just when to have you play it, too."

Philo doesn't like to show how much he appreciates when people do nice things for him, but the light in his eyes betrays him. "Thanks," he says. But then he looks down and shifts from one foot to the other.

"Philo, what's up?"

Philo hesitates. "I've been thinking," he says.

"A dangerous pastime," I answer. Philo doesn't crack a smile. He and I don't share a sense of humor. "Sorry. Go on."

"Well . . . I don't think it's fair what happens to me."

"Drama, Philo. We're going for an emotional reaction."

"I get that. But why does everyone in the book end up happy except me?"

I blink. "Did I . . . tell you about the others? I'm not sure 'happy' is the word I'd use."

"No, Philo has a point," Em says. I have no idea when she got here. "You pretty much destroy him."

"But he lives."

"Only because he's your favorite. Yeah, we all know. You put more of yourself into him than you put into Roy." (For those of you keeping score at home, Roy's kind of a big deal. He and Em are the novel's POV characters.)

I restart the music at the part Philo likes. "So what do you want me to do?" I ask.

"Give me a happy ending," Philo says. "Please."

I think about the things I make him go through in the story. His life does take a rather tragic turn . . . but what can I do about it? "Do you have anything in mind?" I ask.

Philo closes his eyes and soaks in the music. "What if [spoiler spoiler spoiler spoiler spoiler]?"

This is Philo in his element.

I fold my arms. "Hmm. . . ."

"I think it's a good idea," Em says. "And the others are on board."

"All of them?"

"Well, you-know-who had to roll her stupid dice. But everyone who could think for themselves agreed."

I turn to Philo and lean in, as if I can make him think harder about what he's asked me to do. "Your life will still be difficult," I say.

"I know."

"I'm not going to change what happens to you."

"I . . . I know."

"And you'll have to keep your guard up. You know how I like things bittersweet at the end."

". . . Yes."

"But let's try this out. I like it."

Philo raises his head. I can trace the path tears have made on his cheeks. "You mean it?" he asks.

"I mean it."

In a rare display of unbridled joy, Philo hugs Em and shakes my hand. "Oh, thank you!" he says. "Thank you."

And so, here I am, working extra frantically to finish my novel. Because I have promises to my characters to keep.

Promises to friends who don't exist.

Am I insane? Perhaps a little.

But it comes with the job.