Still Moving: Chronic Illness, Strength, and Staying Myself

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The mouse lay flat beneath the dining table. Prince sat a few feet away, staring with the satisfied expression of a cat who believed he had completed an important household assignment. Prince was already in his late teens then. You never would have known from looking at him. He was strong, solid, alert. Aged never seemed to have received the proper paperwork concerning Prince. I looked at him. He looked at me. The mouse looked dead. For a few seconds, nobody moved.

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It's a body rebels where the truth gets told. With a little dark humor and a whole lot of grief.

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Welcome to A Body Rebels. I'm Tate. This podcast shares my personal experiences and is not medical advice. Please speak with your own provider before making medical decisions. The voice you're hearing is AI because illness makes speaking difficult. But the writing, memories, opinions, and experiences are mine. This episode follows an injured mouse, an old cat who never seemed old, and what both of them left me thinking about strength, illness, independence, and staying myself. The mouse had entered our house sometime after dark, which felt rude from the beginning. I hadn't invited him. I don't maintain miniature accommodations beside the baseboard. No tiny welcome basket weighted with cheese, toiletries, and Wi-Fi instructions. Prince found him before I did. Prince was large, handsome, rescued, and fully convinced our house belonged to him. My wife and I seemed to remain there under a generous long-term arrangement, subject to feline review. Even in his late teens, Prince carried himself like a much younger animal. He didn't seem fragile. He was Prince. When I first saw him with the mouse, the mouse hung from his mouth by the tail. My body reacted before my brain formed a plan. Oh no. This belongs to me now. I understand cats are predators. I'm not confused about nature. Cats have spent generations building excellent public relations through purring, soft paws, and photographs from laundry baskets. Watching the food chain unfold beside my dining chairs feels different. Prince dropped the mouse. The mouse ran. Prince blocked him, swatted him, waited, then pounced again. I moved toward them, trying to interfere without creating a three-species emergency. Prince gave me a look of deep irritation, as though I had walked into his office during a confidential meeting. Then the mouse stopped moving. He lay flat beneath the table. For a full minute, nothing happened. I thought he was gone. I hated the sight, though part of me felt relieved because the awful part seemed finished. Then the mouse stood. No dramatic music, no heroic pause, no tiny speech about adversity. He rose and ran down the hallway into the coat and shoe closet as though he had somewhere urgent to be, and felt furious about the delay. A small drop of blood marked the floor where he had been lying. The spot was tiny, though the mouse was barely larger than my hand. Prince looked surprised. I enjoyed his surprise for half a second. He had expected a familiar sequence. Catch prey, drop prey, admire himself. The mouse refused his assigned role. I put on a glove. Compassion matters, but direct contact with a bleeding wild rodent was never part of my evening plan. I reached into the closet and caught him. For roughly one second, he twisted loose, panicked, and injured, then ran into the kitchen and disappeared beneath the refrigerator. Prince sat in front of the refrigerator like a detective who had misplaced both the suspect and his professional ethics. My wife and I watched the bottom edge of an appliance while Prince waited for another opportunity. Ten minutes passed. Then five more. Every few minutes, the mouse peeked out. Prince tensed. I tensed. The mouse vanished again. I kept thinking his strength had to be close to gone. The mouse seemed to disagree with my assessment. Eventually, he came out. Prince moved. I moved. The mouse moved. Everybody made a decision at once. Prince caught him again. I intervened again. By then I was firmly on team injured mouse, a position I had never expected to hold. This time I got him away from Prince. I held him carefully in my gloved hand and carried him outside while speaking in the calm voice people use with frightened animals. You're alright. I've got you. Almost there. Please don't bite me. I walked toward the edge of the property and lowered him near the woods. He ran poorly. Dry leaves shifted beneath his uneven scramble as he headed toward darker cover. He didn't pause beneath the moonlight and offer gratitude. He didn't look noble, healed, or transformed. He looked terrified and injured. But he moved. I watched him disappear into the leaves and said, Well, damn, look at you. For years afterward, those few minutes stayed with me. The drop of blood, the refrigerator standoff, the tiny body in my gloved hand, the uneven run toward the woods. After 20 years of living with sarcoidosis, I understand what life looks like when the body stops cooperating with the plans. I've lived with heart failure, an implanted AICD, damaged lungs, and years of medical uncertainty. Ordinary tasks now come with calculations I never used to make. How much energy do I have? What happens afterward? Does this symptom feel familiar? Do I need to stop? Those questions follow me into work. I'm a private chef. I've worked for one family household for decades. I know the kitchen, the schedules, the meals, and the rhythm of the work. My body changes the rhythm. I pause with one hand on the counter. I sit before continuing. I decide which task needs attention and which one stays unfinished. When breathing gets harder or fatigue settles into my legs, I adjust. The same thing happens at home. A shower takes energy, laundry takes energy, a walk across a parking lot takes energy. Some days I cancel something because my body has already made the decision before my mind catches up. I'm tired of the constant negotiation. I'm tired of one decent day being mistaken for proof that tomorrow will go well. I'm tired of medication schedules, appointments, tests, symptoms, and the amount of thought required to do things I once did without thinking. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm also irritated by the maintenance. Both feelings fit in the same afternoon. Sometimes gratitude looks like me standing in the kitchen with a glass of water, slightly dizzy, muttering, Alright, we're alive. No parade. For a long time I thought the mouse was the part of the story I understood best. Then, not too long ago, we said goodbye to Prince. He was twenty one years old. Twenty-one. Even near the end, Prince remained the cat I had always known. Strong. Proud. Independent. He never looked his age. His body grew older, but Prince held on to himself. On his final day, he let us know the time had come. He went on to our bed and settled into his favorite spot. My wife and I stayed with him. We held him, and there, in the place he loved, with both of us beside him, he quietly let go. There was something peaceful about the way he chose his familiar place and stayed completely prince right through the end. I miss him. I miss the cat who once sat outside a refrigerator waiting for his mouse problem to resolve. I missed the look he gave me when I interfered with his hunting. I missed the way he moved through our home as though every room belonged to him. His goodbye changed the story for me. The mouse showed me what determination looks like when every bit of energy matters. Prince showed me another kind of strength. He remained himself. That matters to me more and more. Living with chronic illness has made me think carefully about independence. Twenty years with sarcoidosis has done that. Heart failure has done that. Damaged lungs have done that. My body asks more from me now, yet I still want as much of my own life as I'm able to keep. I want to stay myself. I want to remain strong for as long as my body permits. I want to be self-able. I want to care for myself, make my own decisions, and remain part of the life around me for as long as possible. I want to laugh with my wife. I want to work while work still belongs in my life. I want to enjoy food. I want to complain when something deserves complaining about. I want to recognize the person looking back at me. Prince gave me a picture of what dignity looks like to me. He was still himself at 21. Still strong. Still proud. Still making his own choices. And when his final day arrived, he went to the place where he felt safe. He had the people he loved beside him. I hope to carry myself through the rest of my life in much the same way. Strong when strength is available. Independent for as long as possible. Still interested in life. Still laughing. Still complaining. Still me. And when my own time comes, I hope I'm somewhere familiar with someone I love holding me. Proud, strong, dignified. Then I hope I go quietly into the sweet night. I'm Tate. Thanks for sharing this time with me. Until next time, take care of yourself, keep breathing, and remember, sarcoidosis is only rare until you're the one living with it.

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It's a body rebirth. And a whole lot of breath. He rose with it. It's a body reapers. When the plans go sideways. It's a body reaping. It's a body reaper's laughing out of It's a Body Reaper.