Scrambling through my black backpack, searching for the ability to uncover my hands from their hiding spot in my long sleeves. Blood from my cracked skin soaking into my hands, drying them out even more. I pull out a travel-size bottle of lotion, open the cap, and quietly rub the moisture into my dry hands, instant relief. The rough skin trying to heal. The label of the lotion reads: Eczema cream. A word I’m so familiar with. My hands aren’t just chapped from the normal winter air.
I used to love the winter, the cold wind on my face, snowflakes on my tongue, warming up by a fire. So many of my memories are from this season: my birthday parties, snuggling in close on the couch to keep warm, racing my brother outside to play in the snow.
I always looked forward to the first cold day. I don’t know when that changed. But now my body knows the first drop of temperature is on its way before the weather app gets a hold of the news. Now I add more creams and lotions to my nighttime routine just to avoid my hands being the center of a conversation. Now my body fights against the winter.
When I was seven, I was diagnosed with Chronic Recurrent Multifocal Osteomyelitis (CRMO). CRMO is an inflammatory condition that brings severe pain to my joints. Luckily, it shouldn’t stay with me forever. I was always told that I would grow out of it in my teenage years. I’m still waiting. Currently, my state is mainly in remission, but once the cold temperatures arrive, along with the cracked skin on my hands, comes pain with every flick of my wrist, from picking up a glass to taking notes for a class.
Now, when I think of winter I feel misery, anticipating months of deep hurt from within my own body just because of a shift in the weather. How could it betray me like this? This year it has become more clear than ever that my body does not get along with my old pal winter.
There is so much to love about winter, so much joy in the air: the holidays, family, friends, birthdays, snow activities, you name it. But the scratchy feeling of my hands in my pockets while I’m going for a walk with my family, or wrapping my wrist as tight as possible with a bandage to gain some comfort, snatches some of the joy out of my hands. I get tired, constantly applying different lotions, hoping to find one that works, and taking my medicine every morning — just to do it all over again the next day, then month, then year. Over and over and over.
Why does my body hate the thing I used to love the most?
Whenever the wind is more brisk than usual, I don’t smile or enjoy the moment. But I try to remember that it won’t last forever; I will survive the winter. The message that carries me through my now least favorite time of the year, as I wait for the sun to come out and relieve me of my agony, is hope that someday winter won’t be so dreadful and someday I will no longer be waiting.
