is it lifelong?

they ask me what it is that i’ve

got. they ask why i have to wear these

braces. they ask me why i’m so

tired, why i don’t play like i

used to, anymore. they ask me why i can’t

stand, why i can’t walk very

far.

“i’ve got hypermobility,” i say. “and something

“else, but we’re still looking into that.” i look them in the

eyes, with an easy, careful

smile.

“what’s that?” they ask. “hypomobility,” they say, as if just

by saying it (and incorrectly), they’ll be

granted some great knowledge. well, i guess they will.

“hyper,” i say. “hypermobility. i’m too stretchy.” i

pause. i watch their blank

stare. “there’s this thing,” i continue, with that same practiced,

easy, careful smile, “in my dna—it makes it so that i stretch

“t o o f a r

“at my joints. i hyperextend things often—fingers, thumbs,

“knees—among other things. it causes

“a lot of pain.”

“oh,” they say, blinking

owlishly

at me. “so when do you

“get better?”

(my smile stretches, t o o t h i n , and it breaks)

i laugh, and it makes me

sick. “i won’t,” i say, smiling a little

wider, a little more carefully, as if

this will take off the edge. “i’ll have this my whole

“life.”

they quiet, and they look at anywhere but me.

“but,” they flounder, like a fish

out of water, “can’t they make it better? give you a pill,

“give a transplant—”

“no,” i cut them off. my voice is tired. “there isn’t

“a pill, a cure, a transplant. it’s a forever thing.”

they sit there, thinking, stewing.

and then their face lights up.

“have you tried tylenol? ibuprofen? gabapentin?

“what about acupuncture, herbal teas, or aromatherapy? have you—”

i laugh, cutting them off. something in me tries to

sour, but i hold it

tight in my hands, unwrinkled and

untwisted—hoping, for the love of God, that i don’t

let go, and have it twist up and

let me be angry. “i’ve tried just about everything,” i say.

“all that i can do at this point is

“strengthen the muscles around my joints

“as much as possible, and wear my braces, and

“accommodate.”

they pause, flounder a little. they open their mouth,

close it, open it again, and—

“so when do you get better?”

i stretch my practiced, easy, careful smile across my face.

i stretch it far t o o t h i n , and i change the subject.

“but how have you been? i’d like to hear about you.”

and i would—it’s true. i’d like to hear about them.

i’d like to hear about them.

i’d like to hear about them—

anyone but me,

and anything but

how they would fix

what i have.