When the doctor phoned with the diagnosis of Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome, RSD, I had no idea what it was. I asked, “What does it affect, how is it treated, what is the cure?”

“Perhaps your whole body. Spinal blocks. Nothing.” Nothing? I had to get better, didn’t I? All alone that day, without the knowledge I’d later find in computers, I was left to ponder my future and my pain. Those 3 little letters had changed my life!

Watercolors were always my source of self-expression, but I soon learned, my constant, burning pain could be “set aside” when I was totally focused on my art. Frustratingly, my “painting” hand has less control and stamina since RSD. But the act of painting has become an anesthetic, as I focus inward.

I painted the out-of-control “electricity” of my nervous system burning my extremities and jaw, as lightning, traps my body in constant pain. My husband stands behind me, connected, caring, trying not to hover or stop me, loving me just as I am. I do look the same as others—my friends frequently utter, “but you LOOK so good!” disbelieving. They don’t understand, caught in their own dramas. And I don’t look very different. A cane by my side, unable to participate in former activities, always pain inside my compromised body. Normal is different now. Its name is RSD, darkening my life, as a constant damaging storm that affects only me, severely, but envelopes those I love.