The Red Herring

What does feeling better feel like? Are we there yet? How much of the biscuit have we had? Half? Three quarters?

Yesterday afternoon, I told somebody I could see it. That I could feel it. feeling better. In my sleep on Thursday, I finished a bottle of water and when I woke, I requested another bottle. I was drinking. I wanted to put a bra on. I also had an improved attention span, accompanied by a reduced desire to sleep. I did two jigsaw puzzles. Such was my improvement, that I took myself out of my bed and onto the sofa. I moved rooms. I also cooked something in the oven. I had faith that I would not fall asleep in the 20 minutes it took for me to heat some chips.

I was not capable of standing for a long period of time nor was I able to explain the principles of utilitarianism, hell, I still cannot of getting dressed, but I felt better. To me, yesterday’s improvement did not feel subtle; it felt magical. To anybody else looking in, I am sure I still looked like a weak person, with cancer, in need of assistance. The changes I experienced, to them, would have been subtle.

My physiotherapist recommended that I keep a diary of this period, noting what I could not do, by day, so I could look back a few weeks later, and realise the improvement. Up lifting, page turner. I should have known then, that this was going to be slow. And the improvements were going to be subtle. I am not keeping a diary by the way. I do not need further evidence of my regression to childhood.

I hate the subtlety of this. I hate giving my body time. Hatred and frustration defines me at the moment. I want improvement to move at the speed of light. Failing that, I would take improvement at the speed of sleep. I want to fall asleep feeling like I currently feel, to wake up and find that I can get dressed, stand up for longer than five minutes and leave my house for six hours. I am not unrealistic. After those six hours, I would expect to be tired and I would go back to bed. I just want those six hours. In that six hours, if I could not leave my house, I could bake or hone my arts and crafts skills. I could do something that is not lying.

The mental anguish this subtlety puts me under is worse than the physical pain I have to endure. My physical worries are not great enough to make me not notice my incapacitation, but they have not improved enough for me to be where I want to be. All this does is give me time to think, time to dwell and time to get mad.

It is a wonder that I am able to speak to people without shouting or crying the minute I open my mouth. I feel like doing both, but the latter for sure, would be a real waste of the water i do drink. I presume that the opportunities for me to converse are currently so few, that my survival mentality kicks in, and I have to be nice and calm, to ensure that they come back. I have to not show I am upset. I become grateful.

I am constantly being asked whether I am feeling better, and I appreciate that of course, but my improvement is too slow to provide am answer. If I answer with a negative, is that just me, being negative? If I answer positively, people misconstrue the significance of the improvement. Better is not better.

Yesterday morning I did feel better. My ability to drink more than a sip, was the key indicator. For a period, I was also able to converse. I was walking around. I did a fruitless search for dead rodents in the garden. For an hour, it felt like a school holiday. And then, it did not. I couldn’t do those things. Better is not better. My deterioration was not subtle. Every gulp of water I had had, every morsel I had eaten, during my period of good health, rudely and uncomfortable made a reappearance. Once my stomach had emptied itself, without the need for digestion, I became a weak little thing who needed her mummy. Vomiting is never fun.

And that brings you up to the present. I am in bed. I am weak. I am not wearing a bra. I am frustrated. I also keep forgetting that I cannot lean or roll to my left, without causing a lesion headache.

All of it, really is very annoying.

EJB x

P.S. Thursday’s Full Blood Count did not contain any shockers by the way. My boaster from the previous Thursday had worn off, but everything seems to be ticking along.

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3 thoughts on “The Red Herring

  1. Terrij says:

    Patience. You can see a light at the end of a tunnel. Each day will get better, slowly but surely.As far as not wearing a bra take advantage of the freedom. To me taking your bra off is the equivalant of taking your shoes off after a long hard day.

  2. I know you must be feeling, Emma, as if glaciers are racing at breakneck speed compared to your own progress, but we cheerleaders are patient sorts and do not ask every day, every moment, “How are you?” In fact, those of us who have been on this ride for awhile never ask that question at all. We say instead, “You are looking better,” or “That color looks great on you…” to avoid the socially difficult pause after That Question is asked and the recipient is wondering if the questioner has the fortitude to take the Real Answer instead of the socially acceptable one. Perhaps a badge needs to be made that says, “Don’t ask me how I am… just the fact that I am here before you is enough of an answer.” Hugs, Ms. Glacier.

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