If Fibromyalgia Were a Coworker

We share an office, my fibromyalgia and I. By which I mean we share a body, and it has somehow ended up on every project I'm assigned, with no way for me to request a different partner. Let me tell you about my coworker.

It shows up late. Most mornings I'm at the desk doing the system check while my coworker is still, apparently, getting coffee somewhere I can't see. I never know when it'll roll in or what mood it'll bring. There's no schedule I can rely on, just the daily surprise of finding out who I'm working with today.

It takes credit for my worst days. I'll have a flat, foggy afternoon, get nothing done, and my coworker will stand there as if it had nothing to do with it, leaving me to explain to everyone else why the work didn't happen. The good days I have to fight for. The bad days my coworker delivers, on time, every time, and never once apologizes.

It books meetings during my one good hour. This is the part that really gets me. I'll finally hit a clear stretch, a window where I could actually do something, and that is precisely when my coworker schedules a flare, a fog, a sudden need to lie down. It has an uncanny sense for my best hour and a firm policy of occupying it.

It dominates the calendar. Plans I make have to run past my coworker first, quietly, and my coworker reserves the right to cancel any of them at the last minute without notice or reason. I've learned to pencil everything in lightly. My coworker writes in permanent marker.

And I cannot get it fired. I have filed every complaint. I've gone over its head, except there is no head; the org chart loops back to the body, and the body employs us both. There's no HR that will act, no transfer request that goes through, no end date on the contract. So we share the office. We always will. I've stopped expecting it to change and started just learning its patterns, the way you learn any difficult coworker you can't escape: closely, warily, and with a dark sense of humor that gets me through the day.