A Floor with a View

Hanging out with some friends a few days ago, I was asked how I like my apartment after a year occupying these two rooms.  I spoke of the space as if it were my soul mate.  I love this place.  The walls, the floors, the kitchen, and most of all, I love the ceiling in the living room.  This comment about loving the ceiling triggered a round of uproarious laughter from my friends. 

I forget sometimes that a lot of people probably can't relate to what is a hugely consistent element of my daily life: spending significant amounts of time lying on the floor.  For many years I have pondered the paint cracks, discolorations, and textures of the ceilings of the many places I've lived.  One gets pretty well acquainted with these things after a few hours of staring every day.  It's a big part of my life.  So of course, it's nice that I now have a nice view from the floor.

It seems strange to me that anyone could live in a place and fail to think about the ceiling a lot.  That's as strange sounding to me as loving my ceiling must have sounded to my friends that night.  

 

Oh, well.  For now, I'm enjoying the view.  Simple pleasures often carry me through the rougher moments of this life with chronic pain.

Ropes & Stones

After only five visits, she gave up on me.

Actually, that might be putting it a little harshly.  She didn’t exactly “give up on me.”  She just said she was out of ideas and didn’t know how to help me, and that I could schedule more appointments, but all she could do was try to massage the knots out of my shoulder blades ~~ knots that she said were like ropes and stones buried beneath the skin of my upper back ~~ knots that didn’t go away after five weeks of physical therapy like she expected ~~ knots that bucked her off when she dug her elbows into them, throwing her off balance.

You may remember a recent post in which I wrote about the emotional roller coaster of searching for remedies for my chronic pain.  One thing I can say about this particular ride: at least it was short.  It took a year for the spine specialist to advise me to give up – actually, his words were “to throw your hands up,” and “get on with your life.”  At least this physical therapist only needed five weeks to realize she was in over her head. 

If it sounds like I’m totally discouraged and depressed, I’m really not.  While the pain can be frustrating and debilitating at times, I’ve really pretty much gotten used to it.  I mean, it’s been there every day for twenty years or so.  Continuing to live with it is far from the worst thing that could happen. 

Anyway.  That’s my update.  If you ever need to borrow a rope, I always keep a few on hand in my shoulder blade region.  Just need to figure out how to get them out…

Energy: An Unrealistic Luxury

Very seldom do moments of inspiration and energy coincide with opportunities to get things done around the house.  In the morning as I go through my routine preparing to head off to work, I notice that the bathroom sink needs to be cleaned or the beans in the cupboard rearranged.  I make a mental note to do the work when I get home, but at the end of the day I am drained and want only to lie on the floor and listen to Elliott Smith until bedtime.  Another day passes and the sink is still dirty and the cupboard in chaos. 

If this goes on long enough, the little tasks accumulate.  Each moment in the apartment I am haunted by the mocking sneers of tasks undone.  Weren’t you going to take out the compost?  Shouldn’t you have dusted the sills?  Look at all the crumbs under the toaster! 

Some things I have learned.  One of them is this: Energy is an unrealistic luxury in a life of chronic pain.  Sometimes you just have to do stuff anyway.  Other times you need to let yourself off the hook.

I’ve found that some tasks around the house really only take a few minutes, and if I can just get them started despite the pain and lethargy I feel, they get done rather quickly.  I can wipe down the bathroom sink in a minute or so.  Once it’s clean, it no longer taunts me with accusations.  I feel a load lift from my shoulders.  Wiping down the kitchen counters and stovetop after washing the dishes keeps that voice silent.  I can vacuum while the clothes are in the washer, in such a small apartment that takes only a few minutes.

Other times, I’m just too discouraged, in too much pain, or too tired to do much more than brush my teeth before bed.  On those days, the dust and grime accumulate.  Sometimes I have the presence of mind to talk back to the heckling dust bunnies; sometimes it’s okay to leave work undone for another day.  Other days I let it get to me; I let it make me feel inferior to the women with spotless houses – like I am fundamentally flawed and weak – like there is no point in trying – like I’ll never be able to keep a nice house – like I ought to have a cleaning lady but can’t afford one – like I’m doomed to live in squalor forever.

Two days ago I scrubbed the toilet.  Today I took out the spray bottle and cleaned up the sink.  For now my head is above water. 

Eggs, Baskets, and Roller Coasters

When it comes to treating my chronic upper back pain, I have learned not to put my eggs in any baskets.  For nearly 20 years my back has hurt just about every day.  For over eight years I have been seeking help from medical professionals.  In the past two years, I have tried a couple of physical therapists, message therapy, anti-inflammatories, steroids, anesthetic patches, a TENS unit, cortisone injections, neck traction, shoe inserts, and a special diet.  Thus far the pain has remained pretty much unchanged: nagging, depressing, and often quite debilitating; like an abusive Siamese twin.

With every new doctor or physical therapist, I’ve ridden the same roller coaster of ups and downs.  On the first visit, we chat about my pain experiences, they look over my spine, they notice the slight curvature and uneven pelvis, they point out the protracted shoulder blades, and they come up with what seems like a very logical explanation for the pain and suggest what sounds like a very simple and achievable solution.

At first I’m super encouraged that “this one” truly understands me and I’ve finally found someone who can help.  I faithfully and zealously do my exercises, taking copious notes about all the nuances of my pain.  Weeks turn into months as I obsess over the details of my stretches and the location, intensity, and persistence of my pain.  But there is no change. 

This month, I started seeing another new physical therapist.  She’s got some serious credentials and a lot of expertise.  Talking to her, I can tell she really knows her stuff. She’s fascinated by my atypical symptoms and curvature, and she’s up for the challenge of finding a solution.  Could this be the one?

While she’s finding the same structural problems in my skeleton that previous doctors have seen, she’s suggesting a new plan of attack.  Her reasoning sounds entirely plausible.  Could she be the one?

Forgive me for lacking optimism.  Most of my eggs were shattered in previous baskets, so I’m leery of entrusting the remaining ones to any container, no matter how appealing it may be to do so.  I admit that this woman’s approach seems very promising.  And while I’m in her office being worked on, I feel like she’s making a difference.  But I also thought that I’d found the solution eight years ago at the first place I went to.  And it seemed that two years ago we were really on to something.  And last year’s cortisone injections seemed like a sure solution.  And everybody raves about those TENS devices.

I guess it’s just hard to fight the combined effect of disappointment and fear of more disappointment.  I want to be optimistic and hopeful.  But I’ve been let down so many times – abandoned and left with this abusive Siamese twin – that I simply can’t convince myself to expect anything good.

When I try to be optimistic, I only feel like I’m deceiving myself.  Like making a birthday wish you know will never come true, I just don’t have much hope in the power of optimism.  This time, this physical therapist may be able to help me.  But I won’t believe it for real until I see it for real.  Try as I may to muster up the positive vibes, I just can’t be sincere about it.  I’m keeping my eggs in my hands while I ride this roller coaster one more time.

We’ll see.  I’llkeep you posted.

Famous Last Words

Every so often, around 2 or 3pm, I look at the clock and think, “Huh, I haven’t had too much pain today.”  These are famous last words in my life.  It seems inevitable that about ten minutes after I utter them, the pain begins creeping and settling into my upper back and shoulders. 

Usually grocery shopping is agony for me; all the standing, browsing, carrying unbalanced loads, reading ingredients lists in search of those pesky sugars.  A few months ago, after repeatedly finding myself near tears in the checkout line, I learned that I should always use a shopping cart, regardless of how little I plan to buy.  Shopping carts carry the unbalanced loads without straining my back, and they make good supports when I need to lean on something for a while. 

A few weeks ago I spent about 20 minutes at the supermarket.  I was feeling good enough that I spent some time doing recognizance on natural sweeteners and ingredients lists.  When I got to my car (with my cart) I was pretty amazed at how little pain I was feeling after so long in the store.

Then I got home to my pile of tomatoes, basil and onions, prepared to spend a few hours making a vat of Creamy Tomato Soup.   I started the work of blanching the tomatoes to prepare them to be diced and peeled.  Then I went to work on dicing them and preparing the onions.  After about 15 minutes of work, I thought, “Huh, all this work and I’m not in any pain yet.  Must be a good day.”

Oops.

Then it started. 

Gradually the burning sensation grew stronger and stronger as I added ingredients to the pot.  As the soup was cooking, I went about cleaning up the dishes, knives and cutting boards from preparation, and the pain increased.  I wiped down the counters and limped into the living room where I sprawled out on the hardwood floor watching the clock as the soup simmered. 

The next step was to puree the soup in small batches.  This turned out to be an ordeal.  For all my excitement about owning a food processor, I was not prepared for how messy, disorganized and frustrating this part would be.  In order to dump out the bowl, I had to remove the stubborn blade, splashing soup down the hole and on the spindle.  Wiping down the food processor between batches, ladling the soup into the bowl, removing the bowl and dumping the pureed soup into another bowl, each step sent fire through my muscles. 

Step by step this continued.  I transferred the pureed soup back to the pot, added the milk and tomato paste, and whisked it together. 

By the time I finished transferring the soup into zipper bags, rinsing and labeling them, and stacking them in the freezer, I could hardly believe how much pain I was experiencing.  I finished up washing the dishes and wiping down the counters – I have an ant infestation in my house, so I need to clean things up promptly, otherwise I would have curled up in a ball at this point or earlier – and again I hobbled over to my favorite spot on the hardwood floor.  It was hard even to get down there to rest. 

Looking up at the skylights, feeling the breeze from the windows, sensing some relief from the burning sensation in my shoulder blades, I tried to think of how good it would be after a long day’s work to come home and eat some of that tasty, homemade tomato soup with a slice of bread and maybe some cheese, and I made a mental note to choose easier recipes in the future.  (I bet I'll forget, though.)

End of Day Cooking

Lying on the living room floor after work, in my mind I walk through the steps involved in making the quiche I’ve been putting off all week.  I’ll have to cut up the sausage, whisk the eggs, thaw the spinach, and shred the cheese.  I’ll have to wash the dishes and wipe down the counters afterward.  I’m pretty sure the compost bucket is full; afterwards I should bring that out. 

Here on the floor it seems like too much to bear.  All those steps.  All that standing.  All those details. 

I wanted to make quiche because I imagined it would be simple and quick.  The sausage needs to get used up, and it’s been out of the freezer for a few days.  Time’s-a-wasting.  It would be good to get this done and out of the way. 

One.  Two.  Three.  I hoist myself up and move into the kitchen.  Mechanically I go through the steps: chopping, shredding, assembling, whisking – – Ignore the burning in your shoulder blade – – I cut corners on the fresh herbs because I just don’t have the stamina to deal with them.  Not noticing the size of the holes in the peppershaker, I pour way too much into the egg mixture.  I swear out loud.  Add another egg and a little more milk – – Ignore the tingling numbness in your arm – – I pour the eggs over the rest – – Just a few more minutes and you can lie down again – – Into the oven it goes – – The home stretch.

Wait.  Ants!  I should probably wash the dishes and wipe down the counters before the ants come out in droves to scavenge among my dirty dishes – – Ignore the stabbing in your ribcage – – Water in the basin, I soak and scrub the knives and forks and bowls and cutting board – – Just a little longer and you can lie down.

Dishes washed, counters cleared, quiche in oven, I seek refuge on the hardwood floor and stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before curling up on my left side, and wait. 

The Nicest Day of Summer

Once again, my pain is playing rude games with me.  All week long I had the good fortune of being relatively pain-free most of the time at work.  Just about every day, I’d have little bouts of pain here and there, but for the most part felt good while I was on the job.  It wasn’t until I was finishing up, preparing to head home, that the pain kicked in in earnest.

And after a week of somewhat comfortable days, Saturday brings the payback.  I slept in a little.  I pushed myself a little harder on my exercise regimen.  And the pain was driving me to distraction by 10 a.m. 

Showering hurt.  Eating breakfast.  Drinking coffee.  Washing dishes.  Preparing lunch.  Laundry.  Even lying on the floor seemed to aggravate things. 

The most annoying thing was that this was one of the nicest days of weather we’ve had in weeks.  Not overly hot, not overly humid, and nice and sunny.  I wanted to go frolic somewhere.  But just walking outside to bring out the compost, I could tell venturing too far would be disastrous.  Even a casual stroll down the street was out of the question. 

Instead I did house work and lay on the floor by turns.