My Ass

Look at this guy! Who needs a head? Blog begins below the torso (racy right?)

These familiar words: I’m just too tired. Again, I was recently at a red light listening to the news (probably medically contraindicated along with grain, dairy and legumes) and it was sunny and reasonably warm and I just felt like the life, the mitochondria maybe had been vacuumed out of every cell and left them all collapsed, beached, withered and calling out for help in a whisper–like in a dream when you try to scream and nothing comes out.  Deflated yet  still inexplicably nomadic.  Cockroaches surviving nuclear explosion. 

I’m too tired to cry! Crying takes a lot of energy. It does! Why’s my throat sore, why do I feel sick again? Why is this happening? Things have been so good!  What have I been or not been doing? Why why why why why ok how about what!   Anything.  

Pressure. Throbbing fucking facial and neck pain. Endless migraines. Sore throat. Oh and freaking COMATOSE.

What’s nice is that when I feel well, I’m like totally normal. WHAT IS THIS?

I miss my friends. I think, no, I know- I would see more of them if I didn’t get sick —as often Don tweets. When our kids were little, my mom friends and I had an alliance. Life with a little kid never stops and your mom friends become your everything. Oh running friends and tennis team girls continued to invite me to social events until I just declined too many times. I think they miss me.  As a tennis player-I would’ve won “Most Passionate.”  I was a 3.0 but played every match like I was qualifying at Wimbledon- I dove– I got bloody knees!

I volunteered at inner city schools, never missed my daughter’s games or recitals.  I love to go, I really do.

Maybe there is a dim silver lining.  I could be grateful that I got didn’t sick while my daughter was younger.  Every mom winces at the memory of parenting while delirious with the flu-it’s the worst but happens twice a year. Doable.  You get through it.

My daughter is 13 now. I think she’s mad.  My illness compounds the angst already typical for her age.  It doesn’t matter that I can’t help it-I do everything to help it but it doesn’t matter. I’m not helping it. And this shit is well passed the expiration date of flowers and hand-colored cards.

I’ve lost old friends too.  I imagine hearing, “she’s making it up; it’s in her head, she should eat red meat.”  Some form of blaming the victim.  Maybe it’s karma. I can envision myself making similar assertions about sick people not too long ago when I still believed in my omnipotence.

But-there it is-me/cfs, the bitch dismounts her broom and kicks the shit out of my ass. Here I am again looking for inconspicuous places to take naps, sorting through a diminishing list of friends that have enough patience to accept repeat coffee cancellations.  I’m afraid to make new plans. I’m the boy who cried wolf.  

Apparently I look well! Maybe it’s the bronzer—life in a can. Wish it would penetrate! When picking up prescriptions from CVS, I find myself trying to look just a little extra sick, reminding myself of something Larry David would do though not as part of some farcical ruse but because I desperately NEED TO get back to my car, parked curiously far away from the the others, so I can get a little public sleep.  What does it take to get a little sleep around here!  Stop slamming doors and erecting buildings, please.

BONUS PHOTO!  This is me.  I’ll admit, not a bad photo, but if you’ll notice, I am lying in a pricker bush because I was dizzy and fell off my granny bike.  But it was FUNNY!

fullsizerender

Next day-

My Apple Watch told me to fill in more fitness rings and my big dog pooped on the floor. My watch is stupid. My dogs protest this lackluster life. They would tell you, in paw language, that I am no slacker. Are you kidding? Do you know who you’re talking to? An endurance athlete with a will of titanium. That’s who. Childhood heroes were Rocky, Evil Knievel, and champion boxer, Macho Camacho, the one that knocked out Sugar Ray all the way into retirement.  But the rings. Woulda tore them up back in the day. These rings are signs that I need to move my ass. Like ass rings from a toilet. You been on there too long, dear! And there it is again-stuck-I’m afraid of moving my ass because the tiniest shade over too much kicks it and leaves me assless, again.  Not a comfortable place to be, not a good look either.

I’ve found it impossible to identify that line of acceptable activity because it shifts. Can I should I would I ride my bike, walk the dog, play hit and giggle doubles? Should I cook? Dry my hair? But I’m so tired; would that could that push me over the edge-the one that keeps moving? I’m a little like a cat with a laser light. For the love of GOD, stop turning it off!  I just had it.

Ok. I’m not in a place of acceptance. I am more so than I was though? Recently, I’ve shown up to most of my doctor’s appointments.  A Holter monitor indicated tachycardia. A chest scan indicated plaque. Related? I bet you.  I really do.  

That’s all for now. If you don’t hear from me again soon, it’s because I’m feeling well and the last thing I want to do when I feel well is to sit on my ass and blog.  I could squat and blog, I suppose.  Tearing up those rings.

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