15 February 2017

Halfway through February. The open bedroom window. Birdsong since well before daybreak. Gorgeous birdsong. Now, after I watched R cycle off to work, with his energy and purpose like a sparkling cloud surrounding him (or maybe it was just his shiny red anorak), I am back in bed waiting for my day to find purpose and for my body to gather energy.
I could occupy myself. I could distract myself. I could make a plan, write down all the little tasks and schedules that are waiting somewhere for attention (or not). And in time, I will do all of these. Because that's what will get me through the day. 
But right now I am trying to not remember process what two experts told me yesterday after they had banged their little hammers onto my knees and ran their needles along my legs. Namely, that nerve cells do not regrow. That unlike all other cells in our bodies, nerve cells when damaged are kaput for ever. That muscles need nerve cells in order to function. And that while muscles can be tricked into activity even when nerve cell damage has occurred, extensive damage can also imply permanent paralysis.
Theoretically speaking, I am fucked.
But hey.
It's only one foot and most of the leg attached to it. Actually, one of the experts was quite enthusiastic about cycling, could be possible, he nodded, probably easier than walking. Eventually. 

So here is the plan: In time, slowly, slowly, I am going to get those muscles, hell, all and any of my muscles, into tip top shape, I swear it, here and now.

(As of today, I am on sickness benefits, i.e. my salary is paid the working masses.)

This bit of music, simply for the name of the band:  




13 comments:

  1. Well, at least that's a bit of encouragement about the cycling. Spring always makes everything look better, maybe actually makes things better so I've got my fingers crossed for you. I saw that Colette dug into her old family photos -- inspired by yours. I may do the same as I could use some inspiration!

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  2. I want to say something, but the injustice of this makes me angry. All I can come up with are swear words. Oh wait, here's a coherent thought: I believe you when you say you will get those muscles in tip top shape. I know you will.

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    1. I hope you are right. Thanks.

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  3. As we both know, the doctors know a lot, but they don't know everything. Your plan is the best. That is my vision for you, too. And thanks for the introduction to more good music from the U.S. that I might not have heard until later on.

    The wind has come up here. Instead of birdsong this morning, there is that roaring of the trees that sounds a little bit like the ocean.

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  4. If anyone can get those muscles working, it is you, my friend. Your strength, stamina, and heartfelt energy are all at work together. I'm cheering you on. One muscle movement at a time, I'm cheering you on.

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  5. Oh, I love that band.

    They doing electrostim on you? Yeah, sorry, as mentioned...

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    1. Daily, I got a set on lease and had a training session so I can do it at home.

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    2. My electrostim was amazing. Acupuncture helped as well, I have my own needles now.

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  6. I just want to offer you support and encouragement. I'm fuzzy on the details about what's going on, but I sincerely hope that things work out better than the doctors expect at this point!

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    1. Thank you Jennifer, I have been watching sparrows all morning.

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  7. Two things. Never cross out words (as with "not remember") unless you explicitly want them to be read. Otherwise it seems as if you're deliberately ignoring the fact that you're equipped with two expungement keys (Delete and Backspace).

    There is a huge literary precedent to support the point I'm making. When TS Eliot finished the first draft of The Waste Land he sent it to Ezra Pound for perusal. Pound went to work like hammer and tongs, not just editing words and lines, but crossing out whole verses. During a rare visit to the British Museum I came upon the original Waste Land manuscript in a display case with all Pound's deletions in pencil. Fascinating. It was a good thing I'd read the final version of the poem beforehand, otherwise this would have been the dominant impression I would now have.

    But just in case you think this sounds like an act of vandalism by a jealous fellow poet, Eliot dedicated the final version of The Waste Land to Pound with a quote from Dante: Il miglior fabbro (The better creator). Still later a publisher had the pages of the edited MS photographed and incorporated, life size, in a book which I'm sorry to say costs a fortune, otherwise I'd have bought a copy.

    I realise this must seem a little long-winded but I hope I've made myself clear.

    Thing two. To keep the pedaller's feet attached to the pedals of a bike (thereby ensuring no effort is wasted - it does make a great difference, I promise you) it is wise to fit toe-clips. Earlier designs involved a strap with a quick-release buckle but these required a mild form of gymnastics if the rider wanted to avoid toppling over, with the bike, when the bike came to a halt. More recent toe-clip designs have done away with the strap but without conceding the increased efficiency. If you haven't already explored these devices I can recommend them.

    In all long-standing ailments it's important to have goals, however distant their resolution might seem. But goals are useless without a pig-headed adherence to routine practices that should, in the fullness of the time, cease be thought of as routines and become simply part of life. Are you ready to be pig-headed?

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    1. RR, have you seen the movie Genius? It's an interesting Hollywood interpretation of the relationship between Max Perkins (played by Colin Firth), the famous book editor at Scribner's, and Thomas Wolfe of 'Look homeward angel' (played by Jude Law). Cutting down 1000 pages to novel size is the theme of the first 45 mins. and it's done almost like a thriller (I am joking, but well acted nevertheless).

      I adore the crossing out gadget on blogger as it let's me express my heartfelt ambiguity - of which I have lots.
      I edit research papers at the medical faculty and I wish some of my authors would cross out and add another possible term from time to time if only to show me their true intentions. But they are much too eager to become famous with as few words as possible.

      As for the bicycle: I am well prepared, cycling has been my means of transport for the best part of my life. If need be, I'll get a bicycle custom made.

      Working on being pig headed, must ask my family for progress reports.

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  8. Haven't seen the movie but read Perkins' autobiography. As I recall Wolfe's MS was far longer than 1000 pages and arrived in a tea-chest (ie, slightly smaller than a cubic meter), a truly heroic piece of editing. If only I could be convinced that Look Homeward Angel was worth the effort; I seem to remember I read it while living in the USA and found the windy style hard to get on with. In recent years it has become fashionable to deride LHA, Gore Vidal being one of its most savage critics. Mind you, Wolfe doesn't do himself any favours; there's a whole page (maybe more, I've forgotten) devoted to listing the rivers in the USA.

    I enjoyed Perkins though (he also edited Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway) and, in my own small way, have sought to imitate him even though I was unaware of this at the time. I had just joined magazine and was handed a lengthy article from an author who'd been getting away with over-blown murder in the past. I cut his piece by two-thirds and challenged him to identify a single significant fact I'd omitted. Deathly silence.

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