I’m a prisoner locked in my own home, unable to go outside. The chains are this horrific migraine and stifling vertigo. I now am captive to the narcotics, currently the only option to reduce this horrid feeling. I need to get out of my funk, but I need your assistance as well as help from above. I don’t mean that last sentence to be as cynical or sarcastic as print implies, instead it’s an honest appeal for aid.
I shouldn’t complain about my prison for it has air-conditioning, a welcome addition to any local abode this time of year. My bed, couch and chair are comfy, each taking equal time positioning my tush. The refrigerator has lots of goodies, a look at my waistband could tell you that. Reading is unfortunately hard because the lines are swirling on the page, but my Kindle allows me to greatly increase the size of font. My thumb is getting buff since I need to keep changing pages much more frequently.
I forgot to brag about my newest piece of apparel. I was presented with a light turquoise t-shirt, the reward for surviving my lazyman triathlon. I now need a similar task to keep me motivated to head to the Y in my attempts to have more than my thumb in the buff category. A hefty kick in the wazoo would help too.
Right now, all of that physical exercise is on hold. The Monkee walk (Linda and my PRC fans understand) continues. Even to open the door to the big outdoors drops me to the floor. Going from an enclosed space to a larger area has always been hard for my vertigo. Up at Mayo, the vertigo zapped me when going from the hallway to the larger elevator waiting area. You can just imagine what happens when going from my home to outside. My legs become rubber (definitely not the buff look I am hunting) and the rest of me get small tremors. Forget any expressive language for the head decides stuttering is more appropriate when I crawl.
So, I stay inside, almost glued to a designated spot. I don’t even attempt to change to a new room without Bob at me side for I have learned a crash will be coming without his help. His poor arms are bruised as I clutch them in fear of falling. He doesn’t complain. This is our life.
Shucky-durn, I didn’t get to see my nephew and his family today,when O’Hare was a quick summer stop on route to see my sister. His son is almost one year and would have surely brought a smile or two my way. Bob and I both have limitations to our travel, particularly in the driver mode. We’ll need to suffice with the great pictures that will be online.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to get out of my funk. I’ve been here all day and feel guilty that “perky” and “inspiring” have slipped through my grasp. I saw “cute”, “vivacious” and “energetic” run from our home. Objectively, I’m blessed with a wonderful home, but I know it’s adhered as my permanent location against any of my will. My lack of freedom rubs against me. Just knowing I have a limitation and lack any control chafes my spirit. Chafing is uncomfortable in June.
So, it all comes down to the following:
1. I still have my vertigo and migraine.
2. I am seeking information from new medical professionals.
3. Medical appointments are being made.
4. Bob and I are both “discouraged”.
5. We love each other and appreciate your support.
6. Life is still good.
7. Chocolate chip cookies would help.
Another Way God Uses My Chronic Pain to Prove Life is Good:
• It allows me to blatantly beg for yummy calories online.
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