I Let Chronic Pain and Fatigue Keep Me in Bed and Pull the Covers Over My Head
Especially on the hard days
I’m tired. You’re probably tired of reading my writing about tiredness. But, here we are. Back to the page, back to being tired.
My right hip hurts. It’s a constant ache in the hip and butt area. It causes me to favor my left leg when I walk. Only when my bodyworker — who’s actually my Primary Care Provider, who is also trained in Osteomuscular Manipulation, which is kind of like gentle chiropractor work, from my lay-person point of view — works on me she says my left hip is worse for the wear. That’s because I keep relying on it to take the burden off my right hip.
But. But, now things are further askew. My eyelids are heavy with the world. The world of news and grief and anger and delay and relationships and neediness and not getting my needs met. Me me me me me.
Then, there are the kids. 10 and 13. The 13-year-old learned about the 4 kinds of sex in science class earlier this week: “Penis in vagina, digital (with fingers, mom), anal, and oral.” I asked if they learned how to put on a condom. “Not yet, how do they show that?!” I reply my 7th-grade science teacher used a banana. My 10-year-old pipes up with something about consent. I say, “good word,” glad she listened to me or someone else when we explained consent to her.
The world goes forward and sideways and spirals in swirls like chocolate fudge sauce drizzled on a sundae I can no longer have. My body flares when it gets dairy and sugar. Alcohol. Caffeine. Nicotine (I haven’t smoked cigarettes in almost 15 years). Acidic foods. Chocolate. Oh, how I wailed and yelled at the nearest human when I learned of all these dietary restrictions that would make me feel better. Sorry, mom.
My left knee hurts so bad that my iPhone app recorded 21% asymmetry while I was walking, visiting my former kickass supervisor at the botanic garden yesterday. She was more than a supervisor — a friend and a life coach. Someday I’ll write about her, an appropriate thank you. It feels a daunting task. That’s how much I changed for the better under her tutelage. At the garden, we visited plants we’d nurtured together, and the skeletons of the place — the Rainbird that makes the water features work. I limped along. I wanted to hop into the John Deere gator and ride to the greenhouse, pluck plants to plop in the spring earth. But, I knew in my bones, my head, my heart that my body isn’t cut out for it.
Buzzards flew low and showed us their magnificent wingspan. Swallowtail butterflies nectared the lilacs. Bumblebees and hummingbird moths drank deep from the tulips. I admired the garden, air hugged my supervisor, and limped back to my car, my bones crumbling into the seat. I was beat.
Here I am, on an April morning. Springtime. The blackberry leaves are lush and green. Virginia creeper is hugging the wooden fence, making its way down to the ground so it can throw runners and try to take over the world, the back and front yard. It’s incessant and insistent in its existence. It’s beautiful and I react to it. It makes me sneeze, my throat itch and swell, and breaks exposed skin out in a weird red rash that dawn soap can eradicate. Birds love it. It makes a great privacy screen. There are caterpillars who feed on it and transform into beautiful moths. I’m tempted to let it take over the world.
I lay in bed and feel my right ankle ache. My neck is sore and I ground my teeth again last night. I grind away the nights. My crossbite once fixed by braces. I promptly lost the retainer. TMJ means I grind and lock my jaw. It feels natural to clench in this position. I sleep curled in the fetal position. I want to die at night — to find rest that deep — and awake in the morning, refreshed.
But, in the morning, I awake tired and sore. Sore and tired. I bury myself under the comforter and groan. At least it’s Wednesday and the kids don’t have school. It’s COVID cleaning day at their schools. They work from home. I hide under the covers while Nuggleson, our Chihuahua-Jack Russel mix burrows with me and kisses my face. Paws at me until I rise and let him outside to pee. To feed him and Juno, our rescue dog, their breakfast.
It rained last night. Chills run through my body. Shivers.
I amble around the kitchen, adding tap water to the filtered water container, microwaving 12 ounces of water for my morning coffee. I’ve long quit worrying about BHP, microwaves, radioactivity, tilapia, and organic produce. I just can’t. Not anymore. I wish I could go back and tell young mother me to quit worrying about plastic, organic baby food, breastfeeding, and whether or not my firstborn had colic. Do your best within your means and feed them love and safety. That’s it.
Good advice for parenting myself too. My eyes are heavy, lids want to close as I type. My knees feel old at 42 and I wonder exactly how my body will deteriorate and at what rate. I want to pull the covers back up over my head and go back to sleep for a good long while. Maybe I will. I’m tired. Very tired.
That’s it. The day in the life of a person who lives with chronic pain, depression, anxiety, and OCD. It feels all about me me me me me me me. I don’t care. I want to feel better. But first I have to live through this pain and cold and tiredness. I pull out another blanket, hoping it will bring warmth to my freezing body. Take my medicine and supplements. Sip my low acid coffee and resign myself to a quiet day in bed. Taking care of me.
Aimée Gramblin examines a life lived with mental health disorders — anxiety, depression, and OCD. From an intense and tumultuous childhood to becoming a parent herself, Gramblin often turns to nature for wisdom in distilling, interpreting, and learning from her history so that she can grow forward on her path, with the hope of inspiring others to do the same. She is currently working on completing her first book — a memoir that documents her childhood, coming of age, and adulthood through a lens of experiences in nature.
