Chronic Pain, Disabled Community, and Navigating a Book Launch—Writer Diary
Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of the flash essay collection Abbreviate. She is also the author of Nerve: Unlearning Workshop Ableism to Develop Your Disabled Writing Practice, Halfway from Home, Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir, and three poetry chapbooks. She is an Associate Professor at Bridgewater State University.
This diary captures a physically demanding week in a writer’s life—one shaped by chronic pain, disability, and the exhausting rhythm of book promotion. As Sarah Fawn Montgomery prepares to launch Abbreviate (!), she navigates a nonstop schedule of stretches, meds, interviews, and deadlines, all while honoring the pace and care her body requires. It’s a week of resilience, radical rest (when possible), and the deep tenderness of disabled love.
Monday, April 21
5:55 AM: I wake up to my kitten walking across my face in her desperate attempt to be fed. I don’t mind, though, because my neck is aching, even sleep no relief for my connective tissue disorder and the spinal injuries I suffered as a result several years ago, the ones that left me with permanent nerve damage in all four limbs.
6:30 AM: After feeding the kitten and eating, I take the first of today’s pain meds, hoping they will work well enough to allow me to accomplish even a few of the tasks I have on today’s agenda leading up to the release of Abbreviate. But I know better than to get my hopes up—any disabled person who lives with chronic pain knows that meds not a guarantee, pain the only certainty. I crawl back into the comfort of my bed, my adult cat and my dog by my side, animals more of a comfort than modern medicine.
7:30 AM: After an hour, I accept that minimal relief is as good as it is going to get. Luckily, my caffeine has kicked in and I am energized enough to tackle my work for the day. I rise to get ready, much to the dismay of my cuddling companions.
8:00 AM: Although I’ve published several books while disabled, this is the first time I’ve had to do book promotion since my spinal injuries. Being unable to type on a keyboard poses a challenge, as does the fact that I cannot sit or stand for more than twenty minutes at a time and must pause frequently to stretch and pace to keep my muscles and joints in motion and hopefully prevent further injury. I put on my headphones and turn on my assistive software, which allows me to speak into a microphone while my computer types, though with poor accuracy, which means I am frequently stopping and starting, losing time and energy. I start my first task for the day—completing a craft essay to accompany Abbreviate. Though my new book is a short collection of short essays, its form much influenced by my inability to work for long stretches of time, this craft essay is lengthy, and I am unsure how my body will respond.
8:20 AM: I’ve just found my flow when my timer indicates that I must complete the first of many physical therapy stretches for the day. These distract me from my work, but if I skip them, I will lose days on end to soothe my sore body. Afterwards, I return to my task, having completely forgotten where I was before the timer sounded.
8:40 AM: The timer sounds again and and I curse aloud, my dog and cats looking up from their pet beds on my office floor to wonder why I can’t just enjoy the sunshine seeping in through the windows. I stretch and return to my writing.
9:00 AM: Rinse and repeat timer interruption and struggling to regain my writing rhythm.
9:30 AM: The timer signals that my fragmented writing session is over and it is time to tackle today’s physical therapy workout. My disability requires strengthening nearly every joint and muscle in my body, because they are prone to atrophy and injury. I set up my workout mat on the floor of my office, which looks more like a gym with all of the balance pads, kettle bells, free weights, and resistance bands. I usher the animals out of the room so they will not interrupt me. They protest, as though relocating to sleep is a personal affront.
11:30 AM: At last, my physical therapy is almost complete, so I celebrate with lunch. Then I get my dog ready for his midday walk. His company makes the last portion of my physical therapy—walking two to three miles a day—more bearable, because he prances in the sunlight, stopping frequently to sniff, which gives me a chance to look at the neighborhood daffodils.
1:00 PM: After hours of physical therapy, I can finally return to book promotion. I begin answering a series of interview questions about Abbreviate. I ignore my stretch timer because after several hours of physical therapy, I have simply had enough. I regret this.
2:00 PM: Unable to work any longer, I am also unable to think, my muscles so stiff I feel as if I might throw up. Because I cannot bear to think of myself as lazy and worry about the success of my new book, I decide to spend the next hour berating myself for being unable to do more.
3:00 PM: My muscle spasm on cue, like they do every afternoon as a result of my extensive physical therapy. I take a muscle relaxer and lie on my heat pad with an audiobook because my disability prevents me from reading physical or digital books anymore.
5:00 PM: My partner finishes working from home for the day. He follows my doctor’s orders and massages the scar tissue left behind from several of my recent surgeries. I wince from the pressure.
6:00 PM: I eat dinner, grateful my partner cooks most days. I can feel the nerve damage in my feet buzzing beneath me as we talk about our days. I take the first of my nerve medications to help quiet the vibration.
7:00 PM: My partner pauses the show we are watching together so that I can take another nerve medication to calm the electric damage in my limbs. It takes a while to swallow the capsules because I am so tired of swallowing pills today—at least eleven pills every day, sometimes more.
8:00 PM: The sedative properties of my various nerve medications kicks in and I am unable to stand any longer. My partner and I begin the process of feeding the animals and getting ready for bed.
Tuesday, April 22
7:00 AM: High pain levels mean I sleep in, though fitfully. In addition to my usual muscle tension, I have a migraine today. I wake up, swallow meds, will myself to be able to work.
8:00 AM: I rush to proof and submit the craft essay before my first stretch timer sounds. Luckily, I’ve been working on this essay for two weeks, a paragraph or two each day. I submit the essay just before the timer sounds.
8:20 AM: I complete my physical therapy stretches, wincing from the migraine pain, and then get back to work on the interview.
8:40 AM: The timer sounds and I step away again to stretch, keeping my headphones on so as not to lose more time. I return to my computer to start the next question, which asks why Abbreviate is a collection of flash essays. “Because it’s all I can write in short intervals,” is what I want to say. Instead, I explain that the book is a small collection of small essays that examines how the injustice and violence of girlhood leads women to accept—and even claim—small spaces and stories, so the flash form complements the book’s themes. I wait for the next timer to sound.
9:30 AM: I need to post on social media because Abbreviate has been included in a “books to look forward to” list, for which I am eternally grateful. But I’m in so much pain that trying to use a computer, even for a short amount of time, will flare my symptoms. Luckily, my partner can step away from his work to help me. He posts the news across several social media platforms while I stand there thankful for disabled love.
11:30 AM: There is no taking time off physical therapy when you have my disability, so I completed as much of my physical therapy routine as I can with a migraine, but now I’m not sure how much more work I’ll be able to accomplish today. Thank goodness, I remind myself, I’m on medical leave from my work as a university professor so that I have time to complete this elaborate daily routine. I’m incredibly privileged to have tenure, but I do not know how—or even if—I will be able to return to work given my injuries. I think about what someone said to me recently, which was, “You’re so lucky to have this time off.” I am. And also, I am not.
12:00 PM: I manage to make lunch for me and my partner. Then we take our dog outside for an elaborate photoshoot near our front door tulips, which have just opened. Then we walk for several miles in the sunshine and I remember how wonderful it is to be alive.
1:00 PM: I come back from my walk to find an email telling me that an editor has pushed up a deadline and needs me to submit a piece weeks earlier than initially anticipated. I panic and put on my headphones to answer a few more interview questions.
3:00 PM: I take a muscle relaxer and get into bed with my heat pad and one of my cats to listen to an audiobook on writing craft. The author says it is good practice to write every day, to write a certain number of words each time you write, to revise by retyping each page by hand. I laugh.
9:00 PM: After a hot shower and both rounds of nerve medication, the tension slowly eases from my body. I turn out the lights and fall asleep with my kitten purring beside me.
Wednesday, April 23
5:30 AM: My kitten sounds her alarm while the spring birds sound theirs. I start the day with pain meds, grateful yesterday’s migraine has mostly abated. I crawl back into bed to wait to feel well enough to work.
8:00 AM: Today I’m preparing for an upcoming conference presentation about Abbreviate and flash essays. I can’t believe I’m one of the featured presenters, alongside writers I studied in graduate school. I’ve already written the presentation and just need to practice the timing.
8:20 AM: My first stretch alarm sounds along with a growing panic that I have not prepared enough material. Now I must double my presentation time over the next few days with limited time to work and other pressing deadlines.
11:00 AM: I’ve done several rounds of stretching and managed to cobble together a longer conference presentation, though I have no clue if this will suffice. I’ll have to spend the next few days practicing, which means other tasks will need to be reshuffled. Being disabled is like playing a constant game of Tetris, shifting priorities around symptom management and the daily reconfiguration of your abilities. Luckily, I always liked Tetris as a child.
11:30 AM: Wednesdays are rest days. I get do a much shorter exercise routine to give my muscles time to recover—I only have to do physical therapy stretches for each part of my entire body and walk three miles. This is bliss.
2:00 PM: Motivated by my desire to get outside, I quickly answer a few interview questions.
2:30 PM: I head outside to wander my gardens, looking at the peach trees with bright cotton candy blooms and the redbud tree getting ready to open its edible flowers.
4:00 PM: I lie down to rest my aching body and listen to my audiobook about craft. Now the author says it is important to use all five senses, and I think about the fact that my nerve damage means I cannot feel my feet or part of my legs, my fingers or hands, that my senses there are dead. When I get to the part in the book that uses “blind” as a metaphor, I turn it off.
9:00 PM: Perhaps it is because I’ve taken my two nerve medications, both of which have sedative effects, or because dinner was delicious curry, or because my animals all played together tonight, but I go to bed grateful and sleep well.
Thursday, April 24
8:00 AM: My pain meds are working and I’m standing at my desk practicing the timing for my conference presentation, which is a bit difficult given that the presentation is an hour, but my stretch timer sounds every twenty minutes. Still, I’m energized by the work and the fact that it will be over soon, and I won’t have to keep worrying that I’m going to suffer a health setback that will make it even more difficult.
9:30 AM: I start my physical therapy routine for the day and let my animals join me so that I have an excuse to stop sweating long enough to give them treats. I’ve even trained my dog to perform certain exercises along with me, which is quite the chronic pain party trick.
1:00 PM: I finally complete my physical therapy for the day, grateful my dog joined me for my exercises and three mile walk. Three hours of physical therapy each day is daunting and sometimes makes it feel as though I have little time left for living, but I feel lucky for the companionship.
1:30 PM: I proofread the interview and send it to an editor before opening another set of interview questions about Abbreviate and starting again.
3:00 PM: Despite my relatively low pain levels earlier in the day, my back begins to spasm. I’ve been working more than I should lately, more than I am capable of without injuring myself. But I committed to deadlines without knowing how many dates were going to get moved, how many galleys and assignments and interviews would arrive later than expected, how much the world burning would leave so many of us barely able to keep going. I take a muscle relaxer.
6:00 PM: I’m exhausted much earlier than normal tonight, evidence I’ve been pushing beyond my disabled capabilities. I recently published a craft book called Nerve: Unlearning Workshop Ableism to Develop a Disabled Writing Practice, which explores how disabled writers build a writing life. One of the things I emphasize in the book is radical rest, and yet I am not following my own advice. I take one nerve medication and then the other. I want to cry but decide not to because this will only make me feel worse.
Friday, April 25
8:00 AM: I’m up and medicated, answering interview questions and waiting for my stretch timer.
9:00 AM: After several rounds of questions and stretches, I turn my attention to my email. My assistive software doesn’t allow me to use a mouse, so I’m forced to do it manually. My inbox is full of some exciting news—someone would like to review Abbreviate and another journal would like to interview me about the collection! It is also full of things that need immediate attention—an editor wants me to review galleys and send back edits within two days, another editor who is publishing my poems now also want audio recordings and/or an additional craft essay submitted within a few weeks. I try to answer as many emails as I can before the timer sounds or my back gives out. Whichever happens first.
10:00 AM: I review my notes for the conference talk while my stretch alarm interrupts, reminding me that I will be unable to stretch during the presentation and will likely be in pain. I also have to skip my physical therapy routine for the day because of my conference presentation. When agreeing to speak at the conference, I asked for a particular timeslot, but any disabled person can tell you that accommodations are only for people who’ve never had to ask for any.
12:00 PM: I begin my conference presentation, nerve damage radiating throughout my body as I speak to a wonderful audience of writers.
2:00 PM: I post a conference photo on social media, smiling at the camera, which is true because I am proud of the work I have done and also practiced at the art of smiling through pain.
3:30 PM: A disabled friend from graduate school calls to plan her trip to visit me in Boston. We have been friends for over a decade, so we trade old stories and accessibility tips. Speaking with her is the best kind of medicine.
6:00 PM: My body is feeling the results of skipping my workout, so my partner goes to the French bakery down the street to buy me a piece of decadent layer cake and to check on the book launch cake he has ordered decorated with the cover of Abbreviate. After, I am satiated from the sugar and sleepy from my various medications, and I think how sweet my life is to have this kind of disabled love.
Saturday, April 26
8:00 AM: I try not to work during the weekends so my body can rest, but the amount of book promotion I have to accomplish and my limited availability to do so each day means I’ve been working each weekend for the last month. Today I’m answering interview questions.
10:00 AM: My back is still spasming from yesterday, so following the advice of my physical therapist, I skip today’s workout in favor of going for a four-mile walk in the woods. Perhaps it is the walking, but I suspect it is watching my dog prance along the trail, saying hi to familiar canine friends and occasionally flinging himself in the mud to roll around, but the tension in my shoulders and down my spine loosens.
12:00 PM: I offer support while my partner prepares book publicity graphics for my social media. He has both a better back for computer work and a better eye for design. Sometimes having disability comes in handy.
1:00 PM: I Zoom with some old graduate school friends for our weekly online gaming session. They are some of my favorite people in the world, and there is nothing better than getting together to catch up and adventure through a tabletop game. Today, I talk with a friend who has also recently had surgery, and we share recovery stories, though neither of us is much healed, which is often the case when it comes to disability.
4:00 PM: I lie on my heat pad listening to my audiobook for several hours while my partner reads beside me. This is why Saturdays exist.
7:30 PM: After a long shower to soothe my sore muscles, I watch terrible television while completing my daily stretches. Onscreen, rich people with abled bodies fight over absolutely nothing. After an hour or so of stretching and watching, I head to bed.
Sunday, April 27
8:30 AM: After a relaxing morning reading in bed, my partner and I walk in the woods. We walk the four miles slowly, stopping so our dog can sniff mushrooms and moss. The sun feels good on my skin and the birds chatter in the trees while frogs and other insects sing from the lake.
12:00 PM: I eat grilled veggie dogs on the back patio, grateful spring has arrived with its riot of color. After we eat, my partner and I fertilize the roses, trim back hydrangeas, hibiscus, red hot pokers, and plant some new small trees and shrubs. Gardening is a solace. It reminds me that things are not forever broken, that it is possible to grow even after a hard winter. It reminds me that while nothing is in our control, there is beauty in everything.
3:00 PM: I take a look at my schedule for the upcoming week to begin scaffolding things into place. Two more sets of interview questions have arrived in my inbox, and I need to write another craft essay. I Tetris things into place, already sore from the work that has not yet begun. Abbreviate will be out in less than two weeks and there is still so much to do. For now, though, I am grateful.
3:30 PM: I head back outside with my dog and my audiobook. We climb into a hammock and set ourselves swaying.
9:00 PM: I sleep well from the kind of exhaustion that only comes from a day of good food and gardening rather than chronic pain. Tomorrow I’ll begin again.
