Letter 11: Painful Dances

When we learn about the power of our body

It’s already the middle of July! Please join us in welcoming our next contributed letter from Beth Rasmussen.

Sometimes you meet people and know right away that they’ll be in your life for the rest of your days. That’s exactly how it was for me when I met Beth. We met during our rigorous nine-month MAT program that didn’t leave much room for goofing off. But never fear! We found the time. Whether we were roaming around Northeast Portland’s best coffee shops, chowing down on McMenamin’s tater tots, or using inside jokes to get us through statistics class, no matter what, we were always laughing. A steadfast friend who will always have your back, a contemplative woman of faith, and a straight shooter, knowing Beth for these fifteen-plus years has been a shooting star of luck and joy for me. She has a unique, powerful view on life, and I know her letter this week will illustrate the very reason she does. — Molly

“If you’re going to go through hell… I suggest you come back learning something.”

Drew Barrymore

Living with chronic pain is like dancing the waltz with a Golem. 

I first learned of Golems in a Jewish literature course in college. I’ve continued to be drawn to the idea of a Golem; they are heavy, brutish, uncompromising, and simultaneously, a mysterious defender of the underdog lacking free will. In a 16th century Czech legend, the Golem was crafted by a rabbi when the Jewish community faced persecution under the Holy Roman Empire. Sculpting in clay, the rabbi brings a humanoid figure to life. It patrols the ghetto, protecting the residents with its powers of invisibility and spirit summoning until it goes on a rampage and the rabbi is forced to remove its breath of life and return it to clay.

It was the demanding, hostile aspects of the Golem legend that felt eerily similar to my struggles with physical pain. Everything, from the slight turn of my head to the heavy rise from the floor after playing marbles, my chronic pain has touched them all.

Picking up one of my daughters can be an extraordinary challenge in an arthritis flare. Sometimes they lie their little hands on my sore joints or try and kiss the pain away.

At 23, I sat with a doctor who told me why my joints were red hot and blowing up like basketballs: psoriatic arthritis. 

I sought relief and control, but the phrases from the doctor did little to reassure me. 

“There is no cure.” 

The Golem clamped my fingers into his harsh clay hand.  

“Incurable. Degenerative.” 

Stomp. I shrank at the mass of inflammation in my toes, smashed under the weight of the Golem. 

“Medicine usually controls it, but we’ll have to try a few things.” 

The Golem’s stubby arm fused to my waist, its clay seeping into my tendons, turning them to crackling stone. 

“Don’t get pregnant on this medicine. It removes acids necessary for brain development, so most women miscarry, but you could potentially have a child without a developed brain.” 

I was at the whim of the Golem, yanking me this way and that, my body and heart screaming for relief. 

The Golem held fast when I slept, and it kept me frozen when I awoke. My body wrenched and pulled itself through the days. Its carbonized grip held me when I tried to stand up from the couch; I distinctly remember my mom crying, watching her child strain against her captor. 

The pain held me hostage in a prison built of my own body. Friends would watch me, limping, my left hand curled into a claw, and they’d stare while pretending not to. Strangers’ side-eyes asked questions: How could such a young person be so wrecked? 

Many people felt qualified to give advice as if they understood the intricacies of my situation. They’d tell me that if I ate naturally or took more supplements, I’d be fine. They’d tell me that I could pray through it, or that I would be better soon. They didn’t know how many magic antidotes I’d already tried without result.

I was 24 and needed a wheelchair.

The weight of the Golem overwhelmed me; my body buckled under the strain.

The birth of my daughter, Geneva, took place in Abu Dhabi, UAE, and though every pregnancy brought phases of inflammation, we found abundant joy...and camels.

One night, I got out of my car, shut the door, and couldn’t move. The Golem wrapped around my waist and wrist, halting all movement, and I froze, my hands leaning against the car. I was locked in the infernal dance that Pain commanded.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Someone was cutting in, or making their best effort. They tapped repeatedly, firmly intruding on the unyielding promenade. Alas, the Golem wouldn’t release, but the brave soul interrupted so emphatically that the music was drowned out. 

My husband, Jesse.

Jesse couldn’t set me loose, but he could carry the Golem and me across the doorstep in his arms. He carried us back and forth to the bathroom. He lifted us up when we couldn’t stand to wash dishes. 

Then one day, Jesse jabbed a syringe into my leg. I cried out in pain, but Jesse didn’t let up, knowing that the medicine alone could lull the Golem to sleep. 

With the new medicine, the Golem loosened its grip: the discordant melody stopped. For a time, I danced with shreds of a spectre, as if the pain was still leading, but I gradually reclaimed my movements. 

I started to dance to my own tune, to run again, to garden, to hold my children in my arms without grimacing in pain.

The Golem still comes and goes, filling my body with pain, then disappearing to watch from the shadows. I do not know how long I will be free. When I feel the ominous brush of its eyes creeping up the back of my neck and fall into waiting for its arrival, I try to sprint into life stronger. 

In the end, the Golem gifted me something unique: the knowledge of my own health and the power of my body. All of the weight, the struggle, the agony, has transformed mundane moments into beauty. 

“You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice.”

Bob Marley

My 5 Favorites

• A student once told me, “Your clothes are really outdated, but they suit you.”  Since then, Amanda’s thrift-sourced, sustainable treasures, found via her Instagram @_curatedgoods_ have filled my closet. Good styles, great prices.

• When the world closed for Covid, I decided to learn to style my curly hair (at age 37—if you’ve been called “frizzy” your whole life, there’s still time to go curly). Jessicurl Spiralicious got me there.

• It’s the season of sitting around, and I like a chair with style, affordability, and comfort. Yes, I’m talking about plastic Adirondack chairs.

• Few things are more therapeutic to me than driving with windows down, hair in my face, blasting a favorite song. I could dance all day to Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing” and The Black Keys’ “Gold On the Ceiling.”

• I can’t get enough of nectarines in the summer, as they are my all-time favorite fruit. A version of this salad graces our table at least once a week for as long as possible. Nectarines, bacon, walnuts (I prefer them candied), and spinach. Add a little goat cheese if you really want to blow your mind.

P.S. Who or what helped you escape your own painful dance? Share your suggestion with our readers in the comments below.