The pain is back. And a weird exhaustion. Kind of physical, kind of mental. Like the day before you go down with a cold. Something's not quite right but it's not clear what. Feel the need to go out, though, for the sake of normality. Movies. Gigs. Dinners. Beer. The Department of Knitting. Doing it all and trying not to say no. Forking out for taxis at immense expense. But knowing that going out and being normal is now more tiring than it was a few weeks ago. Because I'm back at work. And the trouble with being back at work is that it takes all weekend to recover. This can't be right. Doesn't seem fair. But can't abuse the tax payer's generosity.
But the exhaustion is not just work. It's also a result of seven months of trying to recover. Every day some physio or exercise regime. Every day the same conversations with different people. Every week some clinic or other. And there's no let up. Not a single day. And this will go on and on and on. How anyone can keep this sort of momentum up I have no idea. I guess people just do. I guess I will too.
And then on top of all of this is the dawning realisation that actually, its always going to be hard. There will always be constraints. All the chat about a new life is actually correct.
There is no pain free way of dealing with these thoughts. And its not just the big things. Try finding a pair of shoes that fit when your right foot is swollen, the graft gets in the way and you have to wear hot and sweaty insoles that only seem to fit your horrid trainers. No more cutesy shoes for me, then. How to plan a holiday when you're scuppered from doing all the things you used to do. Even a long train journey seems an immense burden.
Emerging from all this are unconscious coping mechanisms. The new activities are fairly obvious. What is more surprising is the number of rather bright shirts appearing in my wardrobe. Women who don't like their figures often focus more on shoes and bags, or exquisite lingerie. But when shoes are out of the question, bags are a pain with crutches, and no fancy underwear can hide the scars, the only thing left is a pretty shirt. Compete with me on eBay at your peril. I take no prisoners in the pursuit of the perfect big girl's blouse.
But the exhaustion is not just work. It's also a result of seven months of trying to recover. Every day some physio or exercise regime. Every day the same conversations with different people. Every week some clinic or other. And there's no let up. Not a single day. And this will go on and on and on. How anyone can keep this sort of momentum up I have no idea. I guess people just do. I guess I will too.
And then on top of all of this is the dawning realisation that actually, its always going to be hard. There will always be constraints. All the chat about a new life is actually correct.
There is no pain free way of dealing with these thoughts. And its not just the big things. Try finding a pair of shoes that fit when your right foot is swollen, the graft gets in the way and you have to wear hot and sweaty insoles that only seem to fit your horrid trainers. No more cutesy shoes for me, then. How to plan a holiday when you're scuppered from doing all the things you used to do. Even a long train journey seems an immense burden.
Emerging from all this are unconscious coping mechanisms. The new activities are fairly obvious. What is more surprising is the number of rather bright shirts appearing in my wardrobe. Women who don't like their figures often focus more on shoes and bags, or exquisite lingerie. But when shoes are out of the question, bags are a pain with crutches, and no fancy underwear can hide the scars, the only thing left is a pretty shirt. Compete with me on eBay at your peril. I take no prisoners in the pursuit of the perfect big girl's blouse.
No comments:
Post a Comment