Endure...

I wish that I had all manner of eloquence in talking about illness.  I see other writers craft works of art through their pain and illness.  I have never been good with metaphorical language and most of my artistry remains in the entries I write in my mind whilst battling the dark night of nausea or pain or syncope or my eyes or half a dozen other failings of my body.  Still, when I read my fumblings here, especially about pain, I cringe and wallow in wistfulness about the skill of my pen.

I have spent the latter part of this evening trying (and failing) to ignore the chest pains pulsing within, cattle prod shots in my pelvis and forearms, and aches in my legs.  That and trying not to be grumpy with my beloved Fluffernutter.  He doesn't understand, which helps to temper my short tongue.  But I find it terribly difficult to handle how much I hurt at times.

This afternoon, my realtor stopped by to bring me butter.  Somehow, I ran out.  Okay, I knew that I would be using the last of my regular butter for the rosemary butter.  But I was going to the store.  Then I went a second time.  I almost would have gone a third because being without butter is really unthinkable, but I hurt too much.

Sometimes, when the neuropathy is bad, I find myself curling up in a ball, wanting to wail for my mother.  Or anyone's mother.  Or just simply anyone.  Of course, these days, I do not have many tears for crying, which is weird in an of itself ... another adjustment.  Sometimes, I find myself trying to squeeze both my forearms at the same time because pressure seems to help.  Or maybe I just think it helps.  Something to do, you know.  Sometimes, I find myself frenetically searching for something to stream, something to distract myself from what is happening.

Funny.  I've had three folk talk to me of late about using music as a means of pain management.  But did I remember that as the week dragged on and the weekend found me moaning and groaning even more?  No.  SIGH.

I did make my goal of giving Amos his bath.  He's all sweet-smelling and soft and ready for his inspection on the morrow.  There seriously cannot be anything softer than a freshly bathed Amos.  Of course, when he's no longer super duper soft, I begin to wonder why.  I think it is that he collects a lot of dust.  At least, I am assuming that is why his bathwater gets a bit gray as I start his first rinse job.

A bath for Amos.
A shower for me.
That's it.  That's my day.

Well, that and trying to endure.