I am in trouble.
The seriously sick cruise along ignoring our sleeping limbs and body parts that ought to be in the shop for repairs. What else can we do? I stopped beating my breast when the bruises were too sensitive to look at, never mind touch. I tell myself this should be the end of it. No more. Even Jean Valjean was released from bondage, his sentence served, at least temporarily. Now I am back in the slammer, as it were, unable to use my arms and hands normally, even to walk more than a short distance. This is going to make an escape difficult.
Shit. Here we go again.
Forty years of this. I never get used to it because I fool myself into believing it will end. Progressive diseases progress, as I am fond of saying, and these episodes will not end until I do. Uncertainty is an ugly bedfellow. We know trouble is out there, lurking in the shadows. Problems are inevitable. Why am I so surprised? We cannot beat the reaper.
Meredith wants to buy a portable wheelchair. “I cannot hold your weight,” she tells me again and again. I realize how hard this is on her, and I know she is right. I cannot bear the thought of that chair. I have written about fear in previous blog posts. My father and grandmother completed their time on earth in those contraptions. Their ghosts sit in some forgotten corner.
And I have to move on. I know that. Tomorrow I will start three consecutive days of IV steroid infusions, an anti-inflammatory that can tamp down an immune system on overdrive. The steroids may calm my body, coaxing it back to where it was. Or not. A friend once advised me to develop my tolerance for ambiguity. I still am working on that.
Whatever happens, the world will continue to revolve, and life will go on. Who I am is in my head, not my shoes. I need o be funny again. My stream of consciousness needs to flow. Friends need to go back to rolling their eyes when I speak. Only then will I know things are okay. Maybe this, too, shall pass.