Chronic Illness: Gratitude for the Small Things (Like Speakerphone)
I am eternally grateful for the speaker option on my phone, and that’s not an exaggeration. It’s not a convenience for me. It’s a lifeline. It’s the difference between being connected to the world and being shut out of it.
There was a time when holding my phone was automatic. I didn’t think twice about it. I could scroll, type, text, and talk without my body demanding payment for every movement. Now, my arms and hands can’t hold my phone without causing me real pain. Not the kind you brush off. The kind that blooms fast and loud, the kind that makes you set the phone down immediately or risk paying for it later. Sometimes it’s pain. Sometimes it’s weakness so sudden and severe that my grip just gives out and the phone drops before I even realise what’s happening.
Yes, I have a wrist band on my phone. It’s there to protect the phone, because my grip is so unreliable that I drop things constantly. The wrist band helps, but it doesn’t solve the bigger problem. I still can’t hold my phone for more than a few minutes at a time. Even those few minutes can come at a cost. My hands shake. My arms burn. My strength fades out like someone slowly dimming a light.
That’s where the speaker option comes in. And I don’t think people who haven’t needed it like this can fully understand what it means.
When I put someone on speaker, I don’t have to choose between connection and pain. I don’t have to wedge the phone between my shoulder and my ear (something I can’t do anyway because of cervical spinal narrowing) or brace it in a way that strains everything else. I can set it down. I can rest my arms. I can breathe. I can focus on the conversation instead of the countdown in my body.
Speaker mode gives me back a small but powerful sense of independence. I can answer a call without planning it like a military operation. I can talk to people I love without bracing myself for the aftermath. I can make appointments, ask questions, and be part of my own life without silently calculating how long my hands will cooperate.
There’s a quiet grief that comes with losing something as simple as holding a phone. It sounds ridiculous until it’s your reality. Phones are how we access the world now. They’re how we stay connected, how we get help, how we distract ourselves when things are hard. When your body takes that away, even partially, it’s isolating in ways that are hard to explain.
The speaker option doesn’t fix everything, but it removes one barrier. And when you live with pain and weakness, barriers add up fast. Anything that lowers one of them matters more than people realise.
I don’t take it for granted. Every time I tap that little speaker icon, I feel a wave of gratitude that surprises me with its intensity. I’m grateful for the engineers who thought of it, for the accessibility features that acknowledge not everyone can hold, grip, or strain the same way. I’m grateful that I don’t have to justify using it, even if it looks like a small thing from the outside.
This is what adaptation looks like for me. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just practical. Just necessary. Just me finding ways to live inside a body that doesn’t always cooperate.
So yes, I am eternally grateful for the speaker option on my phone. It gives me relief. It gives me access. It gives me a little dignity back in moments that could otherwise feel frustrating or defeating. And some days, that little bit is everything.
About me
I am a married mother of four children. One of those four children is our granddaughter, for whom we are SGO (legal guardians)/kinship carers. I run a small business and enjoy writing, so I blog. My blog focuses on my family life as well as my experiences of living with chronic illnesses and disabilities such as ME/CFS, spinal stenosis, chronic pain, and fibromyalgia. Oh, and I am only in my mid-40s.
