Today
Today I was woken by a devilery man.
Staggering out of bed sleepily I tried to make it downstairs, but the bedroom door had other ideas. Dear bedroom door - when I stagger towards you all unco-ordinated and half asleep you are supposed to Get Out Of My Way. Thanks for the split lip. Not.
Finally, blood and squeeling not withstanding, took delivery of my new bright red crutches - and not before time. Yesterday I notied that the rubber ferrules on the base of my old blue ones had entirely worn through, making them much more painful to use, and a hazzard to anyone's flooring. Bright bright red crutches, with shaped, comfortable handles. First smile of the day.
Today I didn't head in to work. I checked my emails carefully last night to make sure, because my always weak short-term memory and concept of time are even more fucked than usual, but my next two days to actually go to the office are this comming Thursday and next week. I didn't shower, get dressed or head to the office. I got back into bed. I WILL spend several hours grading essays from bed, and have all the work spread out beside me here waiting to start. Hurrah for double beds for single people. They make handy home offices.
Today I'm waiting very anxiously for the estate agent to ring. Very very anxiously. Today at some point I'll find out if I am going ahead with renting the house in Bexlyheath. I'm not a patient person, and don't like waiting for the phone to ring with big news.
Today is a waiting day, and its also an angry day. Today I'm pissed off, furious, irate. Any suggestion of moving and packing always makes me feel very nostaligic and reflect on the past. Today I'm grieving for pre-illness me. And not just still-able-to-walk me from before christmas, but still able to do everything me from 5 years ago.
There were days, before I got ill, where I got out of bed at 6, to be in the office for 7 to get a head start on the work before my staff arrived. There were days when I didn't leave the offie until 7, 8 or 9 at night. And when I came home I did an hour or 2 in the garden on long summer nights; digging, planting, watering and weeding until the very last of the light finally failed, slug hunting by torchlight to protect my more delicate plant. There were days that I worked on my novel from 11 or so until 2 or 3 or 4. They were the days where 3 or 4 hours sleep was always enough, and I'd do it all again the next day.
That person is the person I should be, but she is dead, her life was stolen, ripped away from her by an illness with no name. Replaced by this changling zombie in a bed. I have every right to be fucking furious. I want my life back. I do not want to be lying here in bed today.
Staggering out of bed sleepily I tried to make it downstairs, but the bedroom door had other ideas. Dear bedroom door - when I stagger towards you all unco-ordinated and half asleep you are supposed to Get Out Of My Way. Thanks for the split lip. Not.
Finally, blood and squeeling not withstanding, took delivery of my new bright red crutches - and not before time. Yesterday I notied that the rubber ferrules on the base of my old blue ones had entirely worn through, making them much more painful to use, and a hazzard to anyone's flooring. Bright bright red crutches, with shaped, comfortable handles. First smile of the day.
Today I didn't head in to work. I checked my emails carefully last night to make sure, because my always weak short-term memory and concept of time are even more fucked than usual, but my next two days to actually go to the office are this comming Thursday and next week. I didn't shower, get dressed or head to the office. I got back into bed. I WILL spend several hours grading essays from bed, and have all the work spread out beside me here waiting to start. Hurrah for double beds for single people. They make handy home offices.
Today I'm waiting very anxiously for the estate agent to ring. Very very anxiously. Today at some point I'll find out if I am going ahead with renting the house in Bexlyheath. I'm not a patient person, and don't like waiting for the phone to ring with big news.
Today is a waiting day, and its also an angry day. Today I'm pissed off, furious, irate. Any suggestion of moving and packing always makes me feel very nostaligic and reflect on the past. Today I'm grieving for pre-illness me. And not just still-able-to-walk me from before christmas, but still able to do everything me from 5 years ago.
There were days, before I got ill, where I got out of bed at 6, to be in the office for 7 to get a head start on the work before my staff arrived. There were days when I didn't leave the offie until 7, 8 or 9 at night. And when I came home I did an hour or 2 in the garden on long summer nights; digging, planting, watering and weeding until the very last of the light finally failed, slug hunting by torchlight to protect my more delicate plant. There were days that I worked on my novel from 11 or so until 2 or 3 or 4. They were the days where 3 or 4 hours sleep was always enough, and I'd do it all again the next day.
That person is the person I should be, but she is dead, her life was stolen, ripped away from her by an illness with no name. Replaced by this changling zombie in a bed. I have every right to be fucking furious. I want my life back. I do not want to be lying here in bed today.