Intercessory Meditations

A very bad pain day today despite so many efforts that should have helped—the intercessory meditations and long-distance Reiki treatments of my dear "femifesting" (vs. manifesting) group friends ... a visit to the Wellbridge pool and hot tub ... and three zanaflex muscle relaxants and three oxy-somethings—perhaps I am not taking them soon enough?

How I would love to please all of the beloved people who are trying so hard to help me!  Dr. Minchin's prescriptions, Dr. Guarino's injections, the three different physical therapists who were so caring and (initially) hopeful, B's trips with me to the pool, Connie's trips to the grocery store, and the prayers and advice of so many well-meaning friends. I am showered with so much help and sympathy—mine must be a stubborn case to resist this tsunami of healing intentions.

Three bad days

Three days—three bad pain days, like a string of three dark ugly stones on the abacus of some miserly god. For reasons that remain unclear, a fever burns in my right hip and the muscle tightens like a fist, like a band of fire, like a seizure. No amount of gentle stretching can soothe it. No number of zanaflex tablets can relax it. Nothing but the usual panacea—a good night's sleep—can loosen its grip, however briefly. My only joy, walking through the warm salt waters of the pool at the Wellbridge Center, seems to cause further harm. Even that small happiness is harmful. What hope do I have of returning to myself if I can't take even the smallest steps?

Six glorious hours

For the first time in two long years, I was completely without pain in the middle of the day— throughout every liberated cell in my body. I could waltz and spin. I could pick up a pen from the floor, and reach for a glass of water. I could perch on the edge of a seat without any back support. I could ride in a car over a bumpy road! O joy! O frabjous day! 

This blissful state lasted for six hours. During my next appointment, I reported this to my new doctor. He was disappointed. "Only six hours?" "No, you don't understand. I want to kiss the ground you walk on."

It was a series of small injections along the piriformis muscle in my hip. "Piriformis syndrome," he scribbled in my chart. The diagnosis I had suspected for 18 months, which had been dismissed by five other physicians who had subjected me to one ineffective treatment after another.

Perhaps I am on the way to recovery.

From running shoes to crutches

This is who I once was: strong, slender, limber, pretty, free to run across a street, to duck beneath a low railing and climb into our seats at a movie theater, knowing that B. and the other moviegoers watched with admiration. With a cup of coffee and a good night's sleep, I could think of snappy answers and elegant solutions to the problems of my corporate clients. 

  Who I once was: The longer I walked, the stronger I felt. 

  Who I am now. The longer I walk, the worse the pain becomes. I fear that I'm re-injuring myself every day. But when B. takes Polly out for a walk, I always volunteer to go along. I thump and swing along on my lobster-claw crutches, thump-click-swing, thump-click-swing, trying to keep the weight off of my right hip, and I have to stop and turn back at the alley.

sleep-eating, sleep-poetry

My pain increases throughout the day, so I take ambien to get to sleep.  If I don't go to bed right after I take it, strange things happen.  I will all at once slip into a kind of half-sleep, walk downstairs to the kitchen, and fix myself a snack.

   One morning I woke up and found an ice cream bowl and spoon on my bed table.  They looked familiar.  

   One night I apparently paged through the New York Times, clipped out 4 stories for B. to read, and highlighted the key points with a yellow marker.  

   None of the stories were ones that Awake René would have cared about.

In the past month, B. has twice encountered me wandering around in the middle of the night.  He says that I answered him when he spoke to me: 

B:  What are you doing out of bed?

 

me:  I've been walking in the garden.

   (We don't have a garden.)

B:  What are you doing out of bed?

me:  I understand the language of the Incas.