Emmy Wangmo
Emmy Wangmo is a Brazilian writer from Salvador, Bahia, whose work dissects the intersections of chronic illness, atypical motherhood, and the utilitarian roles imposed on women. Operating in the space between what the world sees and what the body feels, she writes to expose the invisible labor of surviving. A mother of two boys, diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis in 2019 and Adrenal Hyperplasia since childhood, she translates the heavy, unglamorous realities of caregiving and medical routines into literature. She is currently developing a children’s book aimed at translating invisible pain into a language families can share.
Atypically Useful
At 8 in the morning, I had already had a needle piercing my vein, pumping the drugs required to make me a functional being. Not just any being, though. A woman… a mother. I wore my masks, which included loads of makeup to disguise the deep, dark patches around my eyes and the lack of colour in my complexion. Complex as it is, before going to the hospital, I had prepared snacks and taken the boys to school on time. And so the day followed, just an ordinary day, with fake smiles, automated lies about being well, and a real race against the clock.
Three times a week, the routine repeats itself. The hour while ketamine drips through my system is probably the only one in twenty-four when the pain is relieved, and life seems easy and relaxing. Right after that, it’s time for painful injections of lidocaine and steroids, making me numb. Not so comfortably, though. Before I have any time to catch my breath or feel my body properly again, it’s time for school pickups and lunch, followed by a rushed routine of sports, music classes, doctor’s appointments, therapies, and the heavy combo that atypical mothers face as just an ordinary routine.
On that day, with everyone fed and comfortable, it was about 6:45 pm when I was finally able to sit in front of the computer. There was a contest with a deadline for that day, and it was exactly at that time I realised I had missed it by 15 minutes. My world collapsed in tears, and it wasn’t about the contest or the deadline. It was about exhaustion and the realization of my utilitarian existence. Days, months, years, dedicated to caring for others and managing my health just about enough to keep myself useful. No pleasure. Loads of pain. Hardly any gain. Chronically fighting just to be alive.
Understanding there was nothing left to do, I wiped the tears off my face before the boys noticed and set the alarm for the next day. The masks won’t wear themselves, and while my body wears off, I must not look sick.
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