By Halves
I'm living a strange kind of half life at the moment.
It's about three months since I started being ill, and I know better by now than to pronounce myself "well" or "recuperating". Every time I do that, I have another bout of HG. The last one was a week ago. All I can say is that for the last few days, I've been a bit less nauseous. Which is a good thing. And I'm nearing the 20-week mark, which is another good thing. I've got a good chance of getting better at 20 weeks, but I can't count on it.
In the meantime I still get nauseous easily, still get tired easily, and am stuck in semi-recuperation. There are things I want to do. But I have so many excuses for not doing them. Because I start and then have to stop again because I feel too ill. Because I'm too tired. Because I'm scared tthat I won't be able to do them, or will muck them up. Because I've spent so long sitting on a rocking chair and staring at the telly that I've developed Stockholm Syndrome, with the goggle box as my captor.
When I'm ill my brain doesn't work. I can't think about anything complex, can't reason, can't discern. In this state the only thing I can cope with is simple television. The kind that's not too shouty, not too bright, not too challenging. And it has become my comfort blanket, so I'm scared to step away from those warm fuzzy channels for too long. But I'm not so ill, not so often this week. Which means my brain is starting to work again, which means I'm getting bored and fidgety, but...
Having done practically nothing for three months, it's hard to believe I'm capable of doing something. So I do half-things, and leave them half-finished, and roam about the place, dissatisfied, occasionally nauseous.
Nausea is such a sneaky thief. Especially when you know it as the precursor to so much worse. When you learn that it might be a sign, for another spell of days in bed, possibly topped by a distinctly unpleasant hospital stay. So you tiptoe around it, even as it saps you of brain power, energy and the ability to smile, leaving you listless and resigned, another day scuppered.
I do have good bits. I feel churlish for moaning. It's not all bad and will end in something good, and I probably am on a permanently upward road now.
So, you know. Still, here, still hoping. The irony is the sliding scale of contrast. I feel bad, really bad, I complain about it, I long for something better. And then I get better, a little better, better enough to notice the contrast and be glad. But then I settle into the new kind of better and forget the worse that was before, noticing only the still not right of now. And then I get slightly better again, and am glad, but get used to it, and notice yet again that I'm still not well.
Illness shouldn't be measured in weeks and months, that's the problem. It's all so slow. Slow descent, slow recuperation, and all those bloody yo-yo bounces between, as recuperation turns into relapse and my body proves again that I can't trust a word it tells me. Illnesses are supposed to be short bursts, not long ones. And serious illness is supposed to be marked by fear of death, not the promise of life. It's all upside down and roundabout, and makes the moaning even harder to hear than normal.
I just need to lose some habits. Illness is a habit now, settled comfortably into my being and refusing to let go. Acticity, accomplishment, getting stuff done and having fun are habits I've lost, and as usual I'm impatient, assume I can jump right back in and ignore the disabled ramp. So I'll adjust. I'll point my chair down the ramp and negotiate the switchbacks, and aim right down for the well pool. But I might not use my brakes.
___
It's about three months since I started being ill, and I know better by now than to pronounce myself "well" or "recuperating". Every time I do that, I have another bout of HG. The last one was a week ago. All I can say is that for the last few days, I've been a bit less nauseous. Which is a good thing. And I'm nearing the 20-week mark, which is another good thing. I've got a good chance of getting better at 20 weeks, but I can't count on it.
In the meantime I still get nauseous easily, still get tired easily, and am stuck in semi-recuperation. There are things I want to do. But I have so many excuses for not doing them. Because I start and then have to stop again because I feel too ill. Because I'm too tired. Because I'm scared tthat I won't be able to do them, or will muck them up. Because I've spent so long sitting on a rocking chair and staring at the telly that I've developed Stockholm Syndrome, with the goggle box as my captor.
When I'm ill my brain doesn't work. I can't think about anything complex, can't reason, can't discern. In this state the only thing I can cope with is simple television. The kind that's not too shouty, not too bright, not too challenging. And it has become my comfort blanket, so I'm scared to step away from those warm fuzzy channels for too long. But I'm not so ill, not so often this week. Which means my brain is starting to work again, which means I'm getting bored and fidgety, but...
Having done practically nothing for three months, it's hard to believe I'm capable of doing something. So I do half-things, and leave them half-finished, and roam about the place, dissatisfied, occasionally nauseous.
Nausea is such a sneaky thief. Especially when you know it as the precursor to so much worse. When you learn that it might be a sign, for another spell of days in bed, possibly topped by a distinctly unpleasant hospital stay. So you tiptoe around it, even as it saps you of brain power, energy and the ability to smile, leaving you listless and resigned, another day scuppered.
I do have good bits. I feel churlish for moaning. It's not all bad and will end in something good, and I probably am on a permanently upward road now.
So, you know. Still, here, still hoping. The irony is the sliding scale of contrast. I feel bad, really bad, I complain about it, I long for something better. And then I get better, a little better, better enough to notice the contrast and be glad. But then I settle into the new kind of better and forget the worse that was before, noticing only the still not right of now. And then I get slightly better again, and am glad, but get used to it, and notice yet again that I'm still not well.
Illness shouldn't be measured in weeks and months, that's the problem. It's all so slow. Slow descent, slow recuperation, and all those bloody yo-yo bounces between, as recuperation turns into relapse and my body proves again that I can't trust a word it tells me. Illnesses are supposed to be short bursts, not long ones. And serious illness is supposed to be marked by fear of death, not the promise of life. It's all upside down and roundabout, and makes the moaning even harder to hear than normal.
I just need to lose some habits. Illness is a habit now, settled comfortably into my being and refusing to let go. Acticity, accomplishment, getting stuff done and having fun are habits I've lost, and as usual I'm impatient, assume I can jump right back in and ignore the disabled ramp. So I'll adjust. I'll point my chair down the ramp and negotiate the switchbacks, and aim right down for the well pool. But I might not use my brakes.
___
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