It’s hard to describe the feeling of knowing little by little and piece by piece, you are fading away. It’s subtle and not at all noticeable on the outside, but you feel it. You feel it deep inside your already achy bones that something is changing. An undetectable vulnerability is now inside of you.
It is slow. It has crept its way into your body, a body that should be strong and healthy for all the effort you put into caring for it. A body that is instead, slow and dull and drags. It is a muted weakness. It is a quiet fragility that grips you like a vice, refusing to let go no matter how hard you try to shake it off.
You feel quietly feeble. You look good, but you feel forever infirm as every step becomes just a little harder to take, and every breath a little harder to breath. It is unseen by others but you can feel it creeping its way inside of you at a sloth like speed.
Slowly but surely, you feel like you are rotting from the inside out. You don’t know if it is the disease or the treatment or some combination of the two, but you do know you are ever so slightly less able, less capable day by day. No one else sees you push yourself just a little harder, a little further. But you know you do because your energy wanes a little sooner every day.
You’ve never been meek. You feel meek now. You feel submissive to our situation. You don’t always feel like you have the strength to fight and that in and of itself is part of the slow creeping weakness that you now feel seeping into the core of yourself. Your will is weak. You feel anemic and sickly and decrepit yet you don’t let it show.
Your worst fear is that you will give way under the pressure of your disease so you continue to hold on despite the uncertainty of what awaits you. You pretend life is the same as it always was. You act as if all is well. You know you lack the power to perform as you once did but this is your secret because you look good and one else notices that a slow creepy weakness has taken hold.