I own two nail files, one of which is short, no more than two and a half inches, made of some hard, durable plastic, possibly acrylic, shaped like a letter opener. The other is steel. The the face of the plastic one, the file portion of the thing, is a dull off-white I suppose and opaque. A good two inches long and it narrows down at the tip to a point, as if it had pretensions to be some great dagger or sword. The handle, if it can be called that, allows light to pass freely through, except where it is embossed on each side with the image of three purple flowers, all of which include a green stem, two green leaves, and a white center or disk from which the petals protrude. On one side the center is pure white, like a dab of paint, but on the other side four black dots are placed around the outer edges of each disk, which would form the points of a rough square if connected by line. These four black dots, or irises I call them, denote the side of the files which is coarser, while the flowers without eyes is fine, letting me know that the surface on that side if finer, to be used for polishing after the coarse side of the file has done it's work.
Though I once used my metal file exclusively, I became enamored of this smaller one. It comes with it's own carrying case, a plastic tube of the sort one sees when blood is drawn for lab tests, as mine often is the days. The tube has its own white soft plastic stopper, which reinforces the image in my mind. I am fascinated that the file, shaped like a small knife, is set inside a tube which could easily be used to contain blood. Indeed, perhaps the company which makes the tube uses a mold similar to the ones medical instrument manufacturers use to create the tubes used by laboratories to test blood. The metal file, of course, composed of steel, actually contains iron, an essential element of blood, yet I never made that connection when using it. It was merely a nail file. The tube case made all the difference.
In a former life, I bit my nails off, chewed them down until they bled and became inflamed. This is no longer possible. My teeth have been weakened by loss of calcium, and biting my nails became a act of chipping or shattering my teeth. You can imagine how upset that made me, and embarrassed. I refused to show my cracked and broken teeth when I smiled for many years until I finally had my porcelain caps placed over the two front teeth that had incurred the most damage, or at least the most readily apparent damage. At first, I reverted to tearing my nails off, but that was simply too painful after a while, created hang nails, led to infection and so on. At least I gave up the habit, or was broken of it by circumstances, sometime before I turned 45, I believe.
Yet now I faced a different problem, one that I had never anticipated. My nails grew. They grew quite long in fact. In the beginning this was a source of pride, though why I could not say. Chalk it up to vanity. However, as all who grow out their nails know, and as I should have known, but never having experienced the phenomenon, had forgotten, those lovely long nails began to crack or split. I have always disliked nail clippers and nail scissors, and so I discovered my only remaining option to prevent these atrocious catastrophes from occurring was the humble nail file. Of course, once I started down that path there was no going back.
You might consider this an odd or even silly subject, and I wouldn't fault you for that if you did. Yet my discovery of the wonders of nail files coincided with the the various ailments and afflictions that wracked my body and, at the age of 42, led me to resign from my career as a lawyer, not long after I had made partner. As any attorney can tell you, being granted a partnership in a large firm (and my firm was large enough, 200 attorneys or so) is a signal achievement. A partner can earn far more than a mere "associate" attorney, who receives only a salary and not a percentage of the firm's profits. Just as I had reached this career goal, after my life path and career path had been assured, I lost everything. Or so it seemed at the time. My job and my earnings were gone, and to make matters worse, I was denied the recompense of disability income, because my illness did not have a single defined diagnosis.
My symptoms made it possible for differing medical specialists to diagnose me with wildly differing chronic conditions, though none of these overlapping but often conflicting diseases I from which I allegedly suffered explained all of my symptoms. Each specialist saw what they expected to see, and unfortunately, that made it easier for the people passing judgment on whether I was disabled or not to claim that my condition was not as severe, because they had "evidence" in my medical file that at least one doctor's diagnosis was for a condition that was, in their view not disabling enough.
While we could afford alternative therapies, we tried those also, but none ever worked well enough, from homeopathic remedies, herbal treatments and supplements to acupuncture and cupping. At best they did no harm. At worst, they exacerbated my illness, though I can say the same about many of the standard medical treatments I submitted to upon the advice of various doctors, all who were convinced they knew what was the underlying basis for my suffering, and all of whom tended to ignore any symptoms that did not match their diagnosis of my condition.
I lost control over much of my life at that time. I no longer earned a living or contributed financial support for my family. Worse, our health insurance company, since I had no defined diagnosis, refused to pay for any but the cheapest medications, and refused to allow prescriptions for newer, more expensive drugs that might make a difference in relieving the worst of my symptom. Instead, I was given a handful of older medications, no longer under patent, that while effective at times, also caused severe side effects. In fact, the crumbling of my teeth is a direct result of the use of prednisone, a corticosteroid, which causes loss of bone density by inhibiting the absorption of calcium. I took massive amounts of prednisone, as much as 80 mg a day for months on end when it was believed by some of my doctors I had Crohn's disease. Unfortunately, while it did help initially, I developed a tolerance for the drug and so my worst symptoms often reappeared when attempts were made to wean me off the drug. During this time, I became irritable and angry, another side effect, as well as severely depressed. Nothing was going right for me. Not my family life (for who enjoys a spouse or parent who flies off the handle at the slightest provocation), nor my work life, which simply vanished never to return, as did my relationships with my colleagues since I was no longer a daily presence in their lives.
While we could afford alternative therapies, we tried those also, but none ever worked well enough to alleviate my odd combination of rheumatoid arthritis symptoms in my joints, skin rashes, fevers, chills, night sweats, nausea and, of course, gastroinstestinal issues. I suffered GI problems which ranged from abdominal pain and and distention. My bloating was bad enough to make me look like a woman six to seven months pregnant, and it made it difficult to breathe because of the pressure it put on my diaphragm muscle and organs such as my heart and lungs. Add in bouts of severe constipation often followed by severe diarrhea, and the occasional out of the blue symptom such as blistered lungs, which caused air to leak into my thoracic cavity, a condition referred to as Pneumomediastinum (quite painful I assure you). Finally, the list of things I could eat slowly diminished. All the foods I loved from pizza to Mexican food, to many kinds of vegetable, salads, spices and sauces, even meat triggered my symptoms. Is it any wonder I was one miserable SOB?
As anyone can tell you, losing your job, much less having a chronic debilitating illness, is a devastating blow to one's self esteem. You might even say it rises to the level of a crisis of identity. For that is how we build our identities, is it not? We define ourselves by our work, by our relationships and the role we play in our families, and even by the leisure activities we pursue. Our identity as social beings is founded upon the myth that we are in control of the course of our lives, for good or ill. When those relevant activities, by which we define ourselves, are taken away, that identity we worked so hard to construct for ourselves, the very narrative of our life upon which we rely, comes crashing down and a feeling of helplessness, frustration and ultimately depression is often the result. It is as if I was part of a giant Jenga game, and everything came crashing down when the critical pieces around which I had constructed my life, my story were removed.
At this point you might be wondering what the heck my use of a nail file plays in this story. Well, the funny thing about a nail file is that it is something I could control. How you file your nails, how short you make them, what shape (rounded or flat) you decide looks best is all up to you. I can honestly say that my obsession at filing my nails back during those darkest of dark days when nothing else seemed to be going right for me helped play a significant role in regaining some balance to my life, and helping me come to terms with what I had lost, but also what I still retain. You cannot file your nails without taking your mind off all the anxiety and other damaging emotions you experience on a day-to-day basis. It was for me, in any event, a very calming practice, a form of meditation if you will. It’s strange, but I took pride for once in the appearance of my nails. It was a task I could do for myself, one that could be performed even at times I was incapable of doing much else for myself except operate a TV remote.
I can’t say my nail file was the primary reason I am now a more stable person, one less depressed, one more capable of dealing with all the myriad stresses of my life, but it was the first thing I could do for myself which resulted in a positive outcome, and positive feelings about myself. A small thing, I agree, but one never knows what small thing might help you cope with a disability. I’ve seen people who are paralyzed or are otherwise wheelchair bound transformed by a new chair that why can operate themselves without the help of others. It’s is amazing what acquiring a small degree of control over even one aspect of your life can do. Silly as it might seem, those nail files helped me a great deal.
Since my lowest point, about 15 years ago, I’ve reintegrated myself as best I could into society. I joined a liberal Unitarian-Univeralist church, I helped my daughter when she struggled with her ADHD. I was there for my wife when she had pancreatic cancer, and in the aftermath of her chemo treatment suffered brain damage that left her as angry, frustrated and depresses as I had once felt.
My illness still limits me a great deal. I can’t exercise because physical exertion is a trigger. I have to be very careful about what I eat. I have to limit emotional stress and anxiety as those are triggers for my symptoms as well. I have to monitor my behavior when I am required to take steroids so I don’t fall into the my past patters of anger and irritation. I can’t work at my old job (I tried once and after one month I was a physical wreck). But I can write, such as here on this site and Booman Tribune. And I can help others who suffer with disabilities, whether visible or “invisible,” by being there for them, being a good listener and providing a measure of empathy for their struggles. I can still be an activist for the causes in which I believe.
Life didn’t turn out the way I expected, but it rarely does, does it, for anyone. You just have to change the way you do things when a crisis hits. You have to remember that what you used to do does not define who you are. And you have to take advantage of activities over which you can exercise some control. Even if it is something as simple as filing your nails.
Ps. The current working diagnosis I have is a condition known as Tumor Necrosis Factor Receptor Cell Associated Periodic Syndrome, otherwise know by the acronym TRAPS. You can learn more about this illness at this link:
http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/...