the difference between

I have been thinking about 

the difference between

thinking you are the puzzle

and 

thinking you are a piece, 

thinking you are the tapestry

and 

thinking you are a thread, 

thinking you are the body

and 

thinking you are a member of it.

Taking a sick day

It feels like a waste for a weekend day, but I'm really feeling awful, so I am taking a sick day today.  Just as soon as I finish the laundry.  And the dishes.  And the bills. After that, I am going to lie on the couch, propped in a posturally correct position to do one thing: watch foreign DVDs with no English vocal track.  (When I do this, I can't multitask by doing other things while listening to the show.  I have to focus on this one thing.  [Whether I can or not is up for discovery.]) 

I will not

• obsess about how I should be  cleaning the floors or researching hot water heaters or using the voice recognition software to dictate quotes from books I've read to get those shelves cleaned off. 
• waste time looking around the internet for information about how to get rid of broken toasters and frying pans. 
• get bent out of shape that I can't write ALL THE THINGS. 
• take apart and put back together my tiny Christmas tree (in sad shape after two guests knocked it off its display shelf).
• read (my elbows, wrists, and hands,  are killing me), and I won't even take notes on what I'm watching. 
• berate myself for not sorting through files or any of the other cleaning tasks that remain from moving into this space all those months ago.
• think about how sleep deprived and tired I am and how much I dread going to work and having to interact with people when I feel this unwell (my patience and filters are just gone, and I say things sometimes that I just shouldn't).
• think about how helpless I feel in the face of this pain and inability to sleep.
• worry about how much more my back hurts or why it feels like I have bruises all over it.

I will

• work hard at not curling up into a miserable ball because that will make various things hurt more tomorrow.
• look out the window at the trees and the sunlight.
• remember to get up and drink water. 
• even eat something, if I am feeling less sick. ( I probably should; if this is an allergy/weather change nausea, then getting some food in my stomach to dilute all the snot draining into it is probably a good idea.) 
• rest as hard as I can. 
• hope that tomorrow will be better.

You can't spoil them at this age (4 weeks)

.
Because I held
the baby too much,
my shoulder is
sore from keeping him
on top of me (because
he is a flopper), and
my back and hip ache
from rocking him
(because he likes
to be held as you walk,
but I can't
hold him
safely
that way, so I
must become a
perpetual motion machine
as I sit, arms held up
with pillows).  I
have taken ibuprofin
several times, yet
still I ache
because I
could not
possibly
hold him
enough.
.

useful insomnia

Whoever said baby breathing
is a soothing, comforting sound
never held a 4-week-old still
twitchy and erratic and only rarely
breathing regularly, like a tiny,
slightly wheezy bellows felt
through the collarbone more than
heard, nor felt those sudden, startling
stiffenings that last for three seconds
of baby nightmare and then are gone,
replaced by even more labored
and erratic breathing, so you can't
tell if he's asleep because he's facing
away from you, so his daddy has
to check before he takes him away
to bed, and you can go back to yours.

young and grey

I am moving much less
like a woman of 60
these days (except for
the left arm, hip, and
lower back), but the silver
is taking over my hair
that much faster.  An 

odd tradeoff, but not 

unwelcome, I suppose.

.

like origami

My first chiropractor folds me
like origami, and my joints are
not his biggest fans.  He promised
not to turn me into a puddle, and he
is true to his word thus far, but
he says there should never be more
than mild discomfort, and this is a problem
because it's rare for there to be less
than mild discomfort at all times
even when he is not creasing me
into a crane.  Can the crane say to the folder,
"Why did you make me this way?"  Here's
hoping I don't need a thousand visits
to get my wish to come true.  I can't possibly
afford that. 

Why I like my physical therapist

The physical therapist looked back at the last two months of therapy and then said, apologetically, "If it were anyone else, after two months of therapy, most people would be at close to 100%.  But, since you're you, I'd give it another 8 months or so."

I looked at him mournfully and said, "You're supposed to say, 'Since you're special', not 'since you're you.'"

He laughed.  He's a good audience, as I have mentioned before.  It's not that he's unsympathetic; it's just that he's limped down this long road before.  Last time, he eventually gave up, but I kept doing his exercises, and, after 3 times the amount of time it would take for a normal human to be over a flareup of plantar fasciitis, I wasn't limping all the time.  From the PF, anyway.

There is something to be said about working with a therapist who knows how screwed up my body is right now: it's very nice.  "Your body just doesn't know how to fix itself right now," he said.  There is no frustration on his part with how slow my progress is even though I'm doing the ^*#&ing exercises.  (That means I don't have to sense his frustration and get more desperate or wonder if he believes me about doing the ^*#&ing exercises.)

Why I like my physical therapist:

• No false sympathy.  When I first started, he told me to do as many of this particular exercise as I could before the pain made me stop.  I think I did 4.  I asked him how many I should be able to do, and he said, "Normally, people can do 30 at a time.  2 sets of 30.  I can see why you have a problem tossing beanbags with that hip.  It's kind of pathetic."  Ahhhhh, refreshing.  I also can't lawn bowl, but at least I was smart enough not to try after the Bean Bag Incident.
• No false projections of how fast I should be able to do these things.  What he said after the first visit.  "I think you can get back to close to 100%.  It's going to take a long time, but you'll get better."  When I asked him his definition of a long time, he said without hesitating, "10 months."  What he said about the newest exercise: "2 sets of 20 is a goal.  That you should reach for."  ("Not that you should die for" was implied.)  I can sometimes do 30 of the first exercise; sometimes I can only do 12.  After 2 months.  Seriously.
• Real concern.  Since he knows this is my life, sees how exhausted I am, and has heard what I'm up against, he does what he can.  Last time, he tried to understand the neurological chronic pain thing because he wanted so much for there to be something that could be done.  (He may also have just agreed that I am a menace behind the wheel when I haven't had any sleep and hoped there was an alternative.)
• Not worrying about depression.  It's nice to have one health care professional (or just one adult, really) in my life who isn't waiting for me to get depressed.  Or maybe worried about me getting depressed would be a better way to phrase it.  I mean, not that I blame the others; there are plenty of reasons for me to get depressed.  I just don't have time.  My PT is a man who understands pain and gallows humor and doesn't get all Concerned. 
• I can almost always make him laugh.  The power.  I really need to not do that when he's twisting me into pretzel shapes to get my hips back into alignment.  He could break me one of these times, and I'd feel bad if I made him do that . . .

"You're kind of a mess," he said.  "When some things are too tight, some are too loose, some are too strong, and others are too weak, it's just a big mess.  But we will sort everything out.  Eventually."

I believe him.

So, this new job - when do I get to feel like it's real?

After I get the email with the start date details that shows the background check is finished?
After my first day?
After my first paycheck?

I've got to figure out how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. If it's going to fall, it will fall. I don't need to stress out waiting for it. Sheesh.

(Have you ever felt like this?)

The waiting game

So, I'm waiting on this phone interview that was supposed to happen.  I got up early just in case they called when normal people start their work days.  I kept checking my phone in agony (what if I missed it?!?!?!?!) and then being heartbroken when the call still hadn't come.  Alternately sweating and freezing, I would wonder if they liked my resume or if they hated it and that's why they weren't calling.  Did I do something wrong, something to make them not like me?!  Why weren't they calling?!?!?!  Oh, the humanity!

Is this what it's like to be waiting for a call from someone you have a crush on?

If I ever made fun of anyone waiting for a call from their crush, I apologize.

How listening to John Tavener is like faith

Sometimes it's hard to listen to John Tavener's music.  He likes dissonance.  It hurts, especially when you're listening to a piece at orchestra volume.  You have to resist the temptation to turn it down to avoid hearing the brokenness, the grating ugliness that scrapes your ears raw.

If you're going to be able to leave the volume where it should be, you have to believe that Tavener's music is going somewhere so beautiful that all the pain will be for something.  If you hear the ugliness that loudly, the beauty is like sudden relief from suffering, like sweet cessation of pain, like the joy of something inexpressible welling up inside you.

Anyway, you must have faith that the pain is worth it, or you'll miss the fullness of the beauty. 

I wish I could sing

I am sick.  Fevers are kind of annoying.  How many times do I have to put on and take off the sweater/sweatshirt/blanket?  (12 or so, at least.  This hour.)  It's also that in-between seasons time of the year where outside temperatures and inside ones are at odds with each other, so the fever just intensifies that.  Also, coughing is gross.  And I can't sing!  That's the worst, even worse than the coughing and wheezing and breathing through a furry windpipe, etc.