Dippity Pig Syndrome

 I had to Google what on earth Dippity Pig Syndrome is. Apparently, the clinical signs include squealing and inability to walk without falling down in the rear limbs. Affected pigs suddenly howl painfully, and fall with the rear limbs extended backward, and the back arched.

Why am I writing about it?

Well, because whenever I feel sorry for myself I watch Rolland, the pig. 

 

I identify with Rolland, as ridiculous as that sounds. Not in the literal sense, but I felt like him many times. That for whatever reason, I woke up and was just in pain and couldn't move anymore. And sometimes it gets so crippling that you just know that this is the end. And I think I would have just waited for death many times if God, in His infinite patience and kindness wouldn't have decided, 'right, if you can't get up I'll make you get up. It will be exhausting for us both, but you'll walk!'

He made a harness for me, held on one side by Himself and on the other side by whoever was willing to put up with my whining, usually my sister, Emma.

Let me just say, if you don't have an Emma in your life, do whatever you must and get one.

She's almost as relentless and stubborn and The Lord. And because I can't always fight back God on account of His enthusiasm, I did fight Emma many times. But like I said, she is relentless. She always takes two minutes to breathe in and then turns around with a smile like nothing happened. She's a cheerleader, my sister. She's praising me for the smallest, most insignificant of achievements that mean absolutely nothing for anyone else, but she knows of my Dippity Pig Syndrome. She knows that something that comes effortless to most people takes me huge amounts of energy and will. So she's like the farmer that is happy that Rolland walks, even as badly as he does, because she has seen me crawling and just waiting for death.

It's painful when you relearn to walk, but I'm sure it's no walk in the park for whoever is holding the harness either. And after their hard work and infectious enthusiasm, the least one can do is not rain on their parade.

So thank you, Emma.

By Cristina Pop