A Toilet Paper Battle

I’m in quite a quandary right now. I don’t tend to be stupefied about politically correct actions regarding my mouth, particularly since I spend the majority of my days plopped on the couch rather than heading off to join other vehicles in a lengthy Follow the Leader game. If anything, I could use assistance selecting appropriate verbiage or concluding a lengthy diatribe, but seldom do I find difficulty lacking any option for any utterances. I’m at a blank! I’m empty! Now what?

Here’s the big issue. Multiple people are writing emails or commenting online that they can’t understand how I “do it.” I’m some poster child, or poster old lady, representing all of us who have conquered or really trying to conquer chronic pain. Maybe it’s my new bionic ability with this silly stim gun. Now there have been moments of my life that I have taken those Nike words to help bolster my spirit to go out and face the world. These words have also been used as a plaster so I may more carefully balance that “I’m Fine” mask that often is squashed on my face.

However, something is “off” today. I’ve heard or read these simple words from three different people today alone, both online from dear friends and some wonderful companions at church. Yet, I don’t know what to do today. You see, the pain is horrid now. I feel my deep incisions that have sliced my muscle and blubber and now stain my back in a railroad track fashion.  I feel hot tears rim my eyelids as I accept that I can’t face those words today. Can I respond, “I don’t do it. What about you?” That response is far too harsh for use with some of my dearest comrades. I honor those individuals who also suffer from chronic pain, many of which were my comrades during my stay up at Mayo. Others are friends from church or work who understand the chronic of chronic pain.

So what should I do on these days? I grit my teeth and continue going until my little Eveready bunny runs out of gas. I look in the eyes of my husband and then focus my eyes heavens way. I try to forget the length of time I’ve been labeled disabled. I laugh at the antics of my dog?

You’ve read about the poor scoring on my happymeter today. Bob was already resting and I went to go get another half glass of water (a full glass is too way too heavy to carry). I stopped by our downstairs powder room and discovered a pile of toilet paper strewn across the floor. I immediately doubted Bob’s guilt on this mess, quickly blaming the true culprit, my spoiled dog. It has probably been years since Einstein chose to combat that aggressive roll of white. I laughed – a good gut-wrenching guffaw. Here I went the last week or so moping around my home and all I needed to do was have a toilet paper party with my pooch. Oh God, thanks for my canine. Life is good.

God Uses My Chronic Pain to Prove that Life is Good:

     -  He provides me with a dog that makes me be the one who howls!