My Answer to Pain

Inflammation was wreaking havoc with my health. Was God trying to show me a better way to live?

- ROBERTA MESSNER

I'd barely slid open my junk drawer when I saw the receipt with the purple paper clip. If shame had a color, it would be purple. I'd bought a treadmill in the hopes of burning off a few calories. I'd managed to get it out of the box, but my joint and back pain had kept me from doing more. The only thing I used the machine for was hanging my robe on the handlebars.

I was tired of it all. The incurable condition I'd lived with since childhood. The surgeries and treatments I'd endured. More meds than I could count, which packed on impossible-to-lose pounds. I didn't want that treadmill taking up space in my house any longer, reminding me that my body had defeated me. That it was useless to hope for a pain-free, active life. I wrestled the machine into the trunk of my car and headed to the store. There was a long line in the returns department. A sign by the register announced that refunds were prorated based on date of purchase.

No way was I getting any money back; I'd held on to the stupid treadmill for 91 days. When my turn finally came, I kept my voice low. "It's been out of the box," I said. "But I only..." The clerk looked me over from head to toe, then said loudly, "I'll give you a full refund. I can tell the treadmill's never been used." What a jerk! I almost blurted out.

I have neurofibromatosis, buddy. You couldn't even pronounce it. Try living with it! The tumors, the chronic pain, the weight gain from the meds. I'd fought my weight too, practically starved myself on less than 1,000 calories a day.

I trudged back to my car and picked up the one treat I still allowed myself: the ice-cold Cherry Coke in my cup holder. I took a long, comforting sip. Then I called my sister and told her about the humiliating encounter with the store clerk.