Something I wrote a while ago...

So tired of the pain. You have no idea how hard I work at looking and seeming “ok”.

But it’s getting harder and harder to do. The new medication isn’t working and I’m anxious about seeing the dr tomorrow. He thought we would be able to drastically reduce the Vicodin, and I’m afraid he may still try to even though this new pill isn’t helping the pain.

Do you know, can you have any comprehension, what it’s like to know that this one human has so much power over your existence? In his hands I can suffer greatly, or have some tolerable relief.

He won’t see me trying to fall asleep, crying because of the pain. He won’t see me restless and moving trying desperately to get comfortable, not being able to get the deep sleep my body craves.

He won’t see me wake up and grimace in pain as the pain that overwhelms my whole side of my body overwhelms my sensations. He won’t see me as I struggle to grasp the walker to drag myself out of bed. He won’t see me barely able to stand, not quite upright, moving as slowly as a snail, praying to make it safely to the bathroom.

He won’t see me grasp the counter, simultaneously pull down my drawers, full focus on not falling while I ever so carefully lower myself to tend to my most basic needs. He won’t see me cringe in pain as I try to reach when I wipe, as I bend to pull my pants back up, as I brace myself on the counter to stand again.

He won’t see me when I bend at the knees, bracing them at lower cupboard giving me enough safe leaning to turn on water and wash my hands.

He won’t see me struggle down the hall, passing by the mirror that I try to avoid, showing my slumped over shoulders and bent back. He won’t see me strain even to open the refrigerator door to poor milk to take the handful of necessary medications that help me get through each day.

He won’t see me carefully lower myself on the couch, lean back carefully, and pray to God. Asking Him to get me through just one more day.  Asking Him to help me get my heart and mind in a good place.

He won’t see me taking the extra time to prepare to stand up from the couch, adjust and position myself just so. Bracing myself by the arm, slowly rising, grateful I don’t fall.

He won’t see me start to set up for work extra early, knowing how slowly I move, just to be able to start on time. He won’t see me constantly trying to move and readjust, trying to get comfortable, as my already painful back increases in spasms and tension sending shooting pain down my legs and in to my feet.

He won’t see me, by necessity, get up and move every 30 minutes to stretch, causing my numbers for production to fall. He won’t see the effort of singing, praying, meditating throughout the day, especially when the pain feels overwhelming. He won’t see me try to push back the time I take that next pill, trying to make sure I’m not doing it of habit, but of course the pain has been screaming at me to take it for the past hour at least.

He won’t see me, exhausted, logged out from work, go in to begin a meal for my son. He won’t see me leaning, holding, grabbing, doing everything I can to be careful as I go through what should be simple movements to make a simple dish. He won’t see that I have to sit down several times during the process. He won’t see that by the time I’m done cooking my throat is too swollen from unshed tears to eat.

He won’t see my precious children look at me with concern, asking me if I’m ok and what they can do to help. He won’t see them, likewise, disappointed and frustrated at the injustice of how much they have to do around the house and how little I can do.

He won’t see me sitting down in the evening, to spend some time with my family, trying and failing to get comfortable. But knowing I have to do as much as I can, because the next step isn’t much of a relief because…

He won’t see me trying to fall asleep, crying because of the pain. He won’t see me restless and moving trying desperately to get comfortable, not being able to get the deep sleep my body craves.