Dear 12-Year-Old Me

Posted by Kylee Black on Wednesday, December 14, 2011

This is a wonderful letter written by Alisa Lipscombe who is Fellow Advocate and RSD Angel.

Dear twelve-year-old me,

Right now, life is pretty good for you. You’ve just started High School. You’re the Form Captain for your class. You got into the audition-only choir at school. You’re in concert band and orchestra playing tenor saxophone, and you were just selected to be the solo singer at the School Easter service. If I remember rightly, your favorite show is The O.C currently and every morning you head to the gym with Mum before walking up to school. Every day is hectic – you’re running around from one rehearsal to the next, texting your friends frantically as you hurry around the school. Yeah, right now, life is great.
But on April 15th that’s about to change. You’re going to fall over at the school bus stop and hurt your ankle. Yep, in front of EVERYBODY. But don’t be embarrassed. Everyone is really nice to you and they look after you as you wait for the ambulance. The next few months are going to be pretty tough. You’ll go to lots of appointments, where most doctors aren’t going to believe you when you say how much pain you are in. But the pain is real. So don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. You will be diagnosed with CRPS (Complex Regional Pain Syndrome) 8 months later, which is an incurable nerve condition that leaves you in excruciating pain 24/7.
From now on you’re going to rely on crutches and a wheelchair to get around. At first, it will be hard because everyone stares at you, but keep your chin up – people stop staring so much after awhile. School stops being as fun as it was at the beginning. Your friends are going to leave you now that you’re “weird” and sick. But next year, you’re going to meet some amazing people who will still be your friends for years to come. I know it’s cliche to say “it gets better” but it truly does. So please, don’t give up hope. Just keep studying and never stop singing. Music will save your life countless times in the coming years.
In 2007, you’re going to fall into a coma and nearly die. It’s going to be one of the scariest experiences for you and your family, but don’t worry. You’re going to wake up and you’ll be ok. From here on in, you’re going to spend a lot of time in hospital, and you’ll get to know the nurses really well. Make the most of it – befriend the other patients, and try your hardest to bring a smile to someone Else’s face every day. You can’t change where you are, but you can change how you deal with the situation. You’ll be sick of hospital food by your 6th week as an inpatient, but Eryn will come in and swap “real” food for your hospital meals. Remember to thank her. Rehab is going to suck. You’re going to hate the phrase “No pain, no gain” and want to scream every time a physio or doctor says it to you. Please don’t get too mad. They are just trying to help.
When your CRPS starts to spread, you’re going to be scared. That’s ok. You’re allowed to be scared, and crying is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign that you’ve been strong for too long. So cry. Let it out. And remember you’re not alone. You’re going to meet some of the most amazing people because of this disease. You’ll make friends with other patients here in New Zealand, as well as those living in California, New Jersey, Canada, Israel, Australia, to name but a few. These people are going to help you survive each day. They understand what you’re going through and when it feels like nobody else “gets” this pain, they do. So never forget that.
If I had any advice for you, it’s enjoy these last few months of normality. Enjoy playing your saxophone. In 2008 when you stop being able to play it, you’re going to miss it more than words can say. Appreciate every step you take without pain, and please try to remember this feeling. I can’t. Every time you see something beautiful, stop and soak it up. In 2009 when your CRPS moves into your eyes and you start to lose your vision, you’ll miss not seeing the ocean sparkle or your cat rolling about in the sun. When you get that Merit next year in your exams, don’t cry. Hold onto the fact that you got 25 other Excellence’s. Remember that it’s OK to say you’re not OK. So ask for help when you need it.


When you’re diagnosed it’s going to seem like the end of your life. But it’s not. It’s just the start of a new life you didn’t imagine you’d be living. But trust in God, trust yourself and your own strength, and keep on keeping on. You’ll be ok. Trust me.

Your Future Self.

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