Frustrating recovery is...frustrating. Why can't the frustration be expendable?
I had been doing better. I was starting to resume some of my normal activities and starting to feel almost normal again. On December 30th, things started going downhill. It seems that they've been sliding downhill since. I've called my doctor, who's advised me to wait, saying we'll need at least 2 more weeks to see if the new medication I'm taking actually works, and it may take as long as 5 weeks. However, if there isn't some pretty drastic improvement in those 5 weeks, then I might have to have more surgery. I really don't want that. I want the pills to work. I want to be able to pick my own stuff up, clean up after myself, walk down to my favorite bookstore or somewhere for lunch, do my laundry when I want to instead of when I feel good enough to, carry my own stuff, and drive myself around. I want to be symptom, fatique, and pain-free. I want all of the related frustration and stress and other assorted negative emotions going on to be over. I want to recover, fully and completely, and move on, to bigger, better, happier things. I just want to get better. I don't think that's so much to ask. I'm not being a virtual hermit because I want to be, circumstances are just dictating otherwise.
I am trying to think happier thoughts, but there does come a point when something like this reaches almost overwhelming proportions, and it's sure getting there, if it hasn't already. There have been way too many days here lately where I've had to resort to self-distraction. The internet can be very good for that and so can books and movies and music.
I bought "The Expendables" because I like action movies, even though stats and lots of people who write articles about movies say that I shouldn't, because I'm a woman. My dad did not get an opportunity to watch it before I went home for Christmas, because "Eat, Pray, Love" came out that same week and my mom is the one who buys the movies in the house. She loves chick flicks and so, of course, she went for that one. My dad actually got on the phone the evening he discovered that he was sharing a house with a copy of "Eat, Pray, Love" and begged me, "Please, please, please tell me that you bought "The Expendables" because your mom bought some chick thing that I'm not gonna like." My answer? "Of course, I did, Dad. Want me to bring it home with me so you can see it?" His reply was a huge, relieved sigh followed by, "Good kid. Yeah, you can bring that one."
While Mom and I were making homemade pizza, which was interrupted every ten minutes by Dad asking "Is it done yet?"-even when we've made this a gazillion times before and he knows that it takes two hours just to make the dough (it has to raise, then be punched down, then raised again), he still insisted on coming to check the progress. Finally, I broke out "The Expendables" and had him sit and watch it. After he was done, I asked him what he thought of it. The only thing that he could think to say was "What the hell happened to Sylvester Stallone's face?" I still almost die laughing every time I think about it.
I am trying to think happier thoughts, but there does come a point when something like this reaches almost overwhelming proportions, and it's sure getting there, if it hasn't already. There have been way too many days here lately where I've had to resort to self-distraction. The internet can be very good for that and so can books and movies and music.
I bought "The Expendables" because I like action movies, even though stats and lots of people who write articles about movies say that I shouldn't, because I'm a woman. My dad did not get an opportunity to watch it before I went home for Christmas, because "Eat, Pray, Love" came out that same week and my mom is the one who buys the movies in the house. She loves chick flicks and so, of course, she went for that one. My dad actually got on the phone the evening he discovered that he was sharing a house with a copy of "Eat, Pray, Love" and begged me, "Please, please, please tell me that you bought "The Expendables" because your mom bought some chick thing that I'm not gonna like." My answer? "Of course, I did, Dad. Want me to bring it home with me so you can see it?" His reply was a huge, relieved sigh followed by, "Good kid. Yeah, you can bring that one."
While Mom and I were making homemade pizza, which was interrupted every ten minutes by Dad asking "Is it done yet?"-even when we've made this a gazillion times before and he knows that it takes two hours just to make the dough (it has to raise, then be punched down, then raised again), he still insisted on coming to check the progress. Finally, I broke out "The Expendables" and had him sit and watch it. After he was done, I asked him what he thought of it. The only thing that he could think to say was "What the hell happened to Sylvester Stallone's face?" I still almost die laughing every time I think about it.