When I am in the rocking chair on the back porch holding Amos and enjoying the view, I usually put my feet up on a section of 4x4 that was left over from the construction. I like how it feels to be leaning back a bit in the chair. I got to thinking, though, about the two sections of 4x6 that are still in the garage. So, I asked Tim to trim one down to the same length as the 4x4 for me. I thought I would stain and seal it.
I am a bit bummed that I grabbed the wrong can of stain and ended up with a color that is too dark when compared to the other wood on the back porch (floor and side table that I made). However, I am not interested in the labor it would take to sand this down and start again. So, I sealed it last night.
The next time I am out, I would like to get a pull handle to put on one (or both) end so that it will be easier to pick up and move when I am fetching firewood. I know this is necessary, because I have tripped over the 4x4 nearly every time I've gotten wood.
What I liked about this is that you can turn it on the short edge and it can be a foot rest for a shorter person. Versatile, eh?
I just had a thought: I could ask Tim to cut down the other section of 4x6 and use the right stain. But ... what if that last chuck of large wood is needful elsewhere the in future??
I had wanted to paint it GREEN, like the chair, but I was not really interested in the laborious process that would be given the long curing times required for that paint and it needed to be covered on all sides.
Looking over the back porch railing, it is hard to spot my beloved weigela. That hummingbird garden stake is just under three feet high. Sunday we are supposed to have rain, so I am wondering if we will also have flooding. The first Great Melt of 2015, following the first Great Snow (followed by more small snow) of 2015.
Amos is a bit tired of having to swim through the snow to conduct his major business. He thinks it is unfair that the snow bank has yet to become crusty enough for him to walk atop it.
The days have been rough, still, because I have not been able to remember all four doses of Erythromycin. Lots of writhing atop the usual bouts of violent nausea. Alarms on my phone. Alarms on the computer. Signs. Sticky notes. A medicine container right next to me on the couch. And yet I struggle to remember. SIGH.
And, for the most part, I still cannot breath easily, I cough, and my ears hurt and itch. I may have allergies, but I think there are germs somewhere deep inside my head. As in germs that need antibiotics. Seven weeks until my next GP visit.
Last year, for Christmas, I received two large candles. I promptly sent a thank you note and put them away. Then, I forgot I received them. I put them with my emergency candles, because of their size, and forgot that I thought that was a good place for them. I discovered them and decided to try the GREEN one, first, not because of the color but because the other one is gardenia. And, who doesn't love gardenia?
The GREEN candle turned out to be balsam and cedar. Removing the metal cover to the jar, I thought I would not care for the scent. But, once it was burning, I felt like I was sitting in the woods somewhere. Bliss. I shall most assuredly miss the candle once it is gone.
I miss the woods.
I miss Huntley Meadows in Alexandria.
I miss the vacations we took to Colorado when I was little.
I miss being able to be out and about in nature.
I am really thankful for Michelle's blog. I thought her raw honesty yesterday (filled with the "colorful metaphors" that can be a bit helpful at times) helpful, not merely for the nod to the need for planning, for how spontaneity isn't really an option when living with dysautonomia, but also for how horrible it is when you break down and become such a lesser version of the person you would like to be...
Side Effects
"It's on my sheet," he apologised, holding out the A4 list of his appointments again. The fourth time since he arrived. And with each showing and each of his apologies I started to feel a wee bit more like a shit person.
I mumbled a pathetic, "If it's on your sheet, it's on your sheet." And started to pull my frayed nerves together to formulate an apology of my own before he practically ran to get away from the scary lady at number 48.
When I asked my youngest if I had really been that bad, he gave me his best, No shit, Sherlock look, complete with an "Ah, yeah!"
And I died a little inside.
I was an arsehole. I knew it. My youngest knew it. The tradie definitely knew it. Given Freya's furtive glance as I let her back inside even she, my ever adoring companion, knew it.
His crime?
He'd turned up two hours early. Way before I was expecting him. In the morning. Before medications. And sustenance. And showers. And my general working up to people. And I had ripped him a new one.
Well not directly.
I had to hurry to my room to get dressed. And throw Freyja outside. Who had picked up on my less than calm demeanor and taken out a full glass of cordial on the couch with her frantic tail wagging. And in my bedroom as I stumbled around, trying to find a bra and clothes while breathing and standing and taking my meds, I may have dropped a few choice expletives. In our poorly insulated and echoing house.
Because I have inherited a fiery temper and a low threshold for anything these days when I am feeling really poorly or, on that day, in pain.
And because I know I had agreed to a post-lunchtime appointment as I rarely agree to a morning one since I became ill. Had it written in my diary and had planned my usual morning needs to that time. But it was clearly written for a different time on his sheet.
And because I am officially a shit person.
My life has become a tightly wound lesson in logistics. Planning is everything. And spontaneity has become anathema. And woe betide any who should mess with that tightly wound, holding-it-together-by-my-fingernails, plan. Like a young tradie with a different time on his sheet.
And I acted like a shit person.
If I know something is coming up I start planning. I know how long it takes for my medications to kick in, how long I need to recover after a shower or putting on my compression stockings. I plan rest the day before and the day of. I psych myself up to use a set amount of my daily functioning and schedule rest and recovery for the rest of that day. I think about foods to tide me over. That I can potentially stomach enough at that time to keep my blood sugar up without also making me vomit. In between all that I have to negotiate the unexpected symptoms. Is this the morning I wake up with a mouth full of vomit, so must negotiate oppressive nausea whilst also putting on a social face? Do I need heating or cooling? Can I walk to the door or need my cane? Will I need to apologise as I make a sudden departure to the loo to throw up mid sentence? Will my blood pressure to stay up while I clench and unclench the muscles in my legs to remain standing. The mental agility and strength needed to keep my shit together long enough for a visit is hard to explain. The exhaustion of just getting ready can be beyond overwhelming. Especially when you are forced to do it everyday for years on end.
But he didn't know any of that. And shouldn't have to know any of that.
And I am an arsehole.
When he came back a week later for another job I apologised.
Repeatedly.
Because the reasons don't matter.
And because I acted like a complete arse.
Side-effects of long term illness may include:
Exhaustion
World weariness
Becoming jaded
Holding a permanent level of stress you don't always realise
Tightly wound emotional hair trigger
Inability to deal with the unexpected, and
Being a first class arsehole to an innocent tradie.
Michelle
It is ... hard ... trying to have any sort of friendship/relationship when your malfuntioning nerves are also frayed and overly sensitive figuratively, as well as literally. It is hard knowing what a wretched sinner you are ... you can be ... knowing that your struggle with illness brings out the worst in you rather than the suffering saint you wish you could be.
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