08 January 2017

Home and struggling in my familiar surroundings.

I feel like an invalid, I said to R last night,
Well actually, you are an invalid, he smartly replied, but a valid one (this in response to me hissing with mad fury).

That whole healing business is bloody hard work. I should have known but I am the last to face reality. Not fair, I want to shout out the window. But the place is deserted and utterly still with heavy frost. At 5 am we got a black ice warning from the local authorities. So I cancelled all plans to be active today. Ha ha.

Picture me mostly lying flat on my back or on one side, trying to keep a straight STRAIGHT back, occasionally standing upright or sitting - briefly - on a hard chair fitted with a slanting foam seat, shitting on the upstairs toilet only because this one has been fitted with a raised toilet throne, forever looking for that gripping tool to pick up stuff that requires bending, plus nausea from painkillers - or maybe a bug I picked up at the hospital. 
Every two hours or so I get up and try to walk for ten minutes, or until I get the shakes, forcing my daft right leg to move and trying not to plop that right foot down like a sleepy brick with each step. 

I am fucking exhausted, typing this makes my hands shake.  You have no idea how sorry I feel for my miserable self.

Yet, every once in a while I reassure myself that all this will get better, trying to picture the cells of my flesh and tissue and skin at the two large incisions in my back weaving and mending and meshing away, doing what they are supposed to do. Hurry up, I whisper, get it done. But they just send a few shivers in response.



  1. You poor kid! Not much worse than waiting to heal and get back to some form of normal after surgery. Time has a way of moving forward, though. Just not fast enough sometimes. Keep telling those cells to get it done. They need the encouragement.

  2. Slow and steady. Weaving is hard work, but the results are beautiful. Keep strong.

  3. Sending love to you, my friend. Love the way R shows his love for you. Your cells are doing their healing work. It is not easy being present to oneself while healing takes place. The process brings up anger and grief. That is my experience. It finally started raining here after days and days of below freezing temperatures. I'm listening to the rain. It's a gentle rain. Snow is predicted again later this week. Either way, I will go out walking. Thinking of you on your bicycle in all kinds of weather.

  4. Hugs, you. I wish I could help!

  5. Healing takes time, and who has patience for such things? It's so damned challenging, and yet here you are waiting patiently for the weaving, mending and meshing to happen. It's happening right now! I can't even begin to imagine how many cells at once are doing the work, busy they are, so busy. Take care, Sabine.

  6. yet you write so beautifully. Yes, hurry and get better. I am thinking of you and sending love.

  7. I'll feel sorry for you for a few hours, if you need a break? Get another grippy thing, they are worth having around. I have two myself.