The company of Oscar, my 6 month old dumpster kitty, contributes to the euphoria. He models how its done; the lazy grooming, the half-closed lids of his yellow eyes, the permission he grants himself to nap at random and/or attack the balls of yarn that I have tediously created during pauses in my never-ending crocheting ventures. He needs no validation. He exists without apology in his full feline-ness. Oh, to be a cat.
I contemplate going to the store. And then I think of the steps necessary to make that happen. It looks like this:
- Side roll from the bed, gingerly make my way to an upright position with as little discomfort as possible
- Use the toes on my right foot to retrieve the sweatpants previously discarded on the floor
- Donne said pants, lay back on bed to apply socks that I have picked out of my drawer at the foot of my bed
- Flop myself back to an upright position, and decide which shoes are appropriate for public observation while also appropriate for my minimal capacity to bend over
- Bra or baggy sweatshirt, whichever I come to first
- Shuffle my way to my purse, throw it on my shoulder
- Shuffle my way to the kitchen where my car keys reside
- Shuffle my way to my car which includes a total of 4 stairs from my back porch, precarious leaf-covered pits care of my dogs, and a chain link fence that jiggles and invites my sweet Lilly (boxer-mix-bestfriend) to be hopeful that she, too, can come along
- Guilt re: Lilly's hopeful puppy stare and the reality that she must remain where she is upon securing the gate
- Lowering myself in to the drivers seat with concentrated breathing, grunting and sigh upon making contact.
- Gingerly lifting one leg up and over, followed by the second
- Adjusting myself in the car, more concentrated breathing, and application of safety harness
- Making concerted effort to drive carefully and without pain to my destination, being mindful of the potential for nerve pain and a less-than-graceful dismount upon arrival
- Plotting out the closest and most convenient place to park that is legal and as private as possible
- Taking the 4 minutes necessary to turn car off, open door, extract my legs from floor board, brace myself against the back of seat and car door in an effort to make a smooth exit
- Making exit, not so smoothly, adjusting my clothes and attempting to stand upright
- Standing upright is not possible, slight pelvic thrust posture due to pain and inability to straighten spine
- Slow shuffle to store entrance feeling like I am on stage, spot light glaring, everyone staring and growing impatient with my slow gait as they wish to be on about their way
- Inside store, deciding whether I am comfortable enough to walk, pelvic thrust, behind a push cart or take the challenge with the motorized scooter that has the basket attached
- Navigate the store aisles for necessities while also not hitting displays, people or small children
- Making my way to the check out in whatever capacity previously decided
- Transporting groceries back to the legal and private parking spot where my chariot resides while the traffic with basses pumping watch, gawk and rev their engines by just as I am out of the way
- Opening trunk of car and placing groceries into its compartment
- Returning cart and/or scooter to predestined place
- Shuffling my return to car, and repeating the concentrated breathing/grunting/leg pulling fiasco that is now my reality
- See numbers 12 and 13
- Arriving to residence, barking dogs greeting me
- See number 8, but in reverse with groceries in tow
Pain and narcotics are great appetite suppressants. I realize that my caloric intake over the past few days has been a percentage of my normal habit. Next time I go to the bathroom, I'll be sure to remind myself to take a look. I swear my stomach feels a little flatter. I'm also laying down, but whatever. I'll take it.
The new running shoes peak through my closet door, bright pink, flashy and mocking me. I ignore them and turn the heat up in my heating pad. I pick up my ebook and fall away into its story, forgetting that I have things to do and an epidural injection tomorrow. And before I know it, I will have been "still" for hours on end in spite of myself.
This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation, yet I am grateful that I have the time. I long for the ability to ambulate normally and resent that I cannot. I study the printed image from my MRI, and grow queasy from the reality of it. The effect of the Hydrocodone not only lessens the pain and my appetite, it also lifts my spirits a touch, making it a very dangerous combination. I understand the addictive quality of this drug and others like it, and make myself feel better for taking it because I am, in fact, in pain.
Tomorrow's epidural injection will be my second go-round. My very first one took place in June. It was a traumatic experience, leaving me in a hospital bed, fetal position, wanting to suck my thumb. The five months of normalcy it provided, however, seem to be worth the trauma of a needle digging in my spine for 5 minutes. I resent that I need it. I am also hopeful that it will work as good as the first one. It's a confusing combination.
I decide to name my heating pad "Charlie." There is no rhyme or reason to it. At least, none that I am aware of. Maybe it's the Hydrocodone... and yes, it deserves a capital "H". Charlie sings me sweet lullabies and understands my need for comfort. Charlie baby's me. Charlie tells me it is okay to just be, to lay here and to rest.
I am grateful for Charlie.
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