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I mentioned to a friend that I was having a bad pain day today. She suggested a hot water bottle. While I truly appreciate her concern, it occured to me that she just didn't get what I meant. Then again, how could I expect her to know what it's like? I don't talk about it. If you live with a pain disease, you know what it's like.
So, here's what I mean by a bad pain day.
When my alarm went off, I was already exhausted. I don't sleep well at night; I keep trying to roll over onto my bad knee, which wakes me up and leaves me staring at the ceiling until the pain dies down. So the alarm goes off and Guinness jumps off the bed to be my brace so I can actually stand up and grab the walker. I yell at the kids to get moving and make my way to the bathroom.
I generally use the walker in the mornings. The doors in my house are the same width as my wheelchair, so getting from room to room is difficult at best. I'm in full flare, though, so every time I move with the walker, pain shoots up my wrists and radiates across my back and shoulders. My "good" foot is having fasciitis problems, so standing on it feels like standing on a small canvas bag stuffed with marbles and nails.I have a bad tendency to try to balance myself with my bad leg; it ends up feeling like my knee is being twisted out of socket. This is what I get with every.freaking.step.
There are 6 steps to the toilet, 14 to the kitchen, 27 to the car.
I get the kids up, dressed, fed and out to the car. I can't dose up on pain meds yet because I have to get them to school. By the time we wait through the 20 minute drop-off line, I'm starting to cry from the pain of the redhot iron poker that's replaced my spinal column. I'm so tired I'm having problems keeping my eyes focused on the way home.
I stop at the gas station for a quick hit of sugar and caffeine before I drive off the road. I bite my lip hard enough to bleed as I shuffle-hop to the back door of the car to pull the walker out. The pain of using it hasn't let up. As I'm heading toward the door I get shouldered aside by a pair of day laborers. They make a comment about fucking cripples never getting out of the way. Needless to say they don't bother holding the door, so I get to struggle with pulling it open, maneuvering the walker (which is bulky enough to need two hands) and keeping my balance. The laborers find this entertaining. Sunny the manager is kind enough to go grab my soda for me instead of me stumping through the whole store. I paste on a bright smile and thank him profusely before heading out. Fortunately getting the door open from the inside is a lot easier as long as I remember to lead with my butt.
I make it home, finally take my pain pills and stagger to my bed. Once the meds kick in I'll be able to stop crying. If I'm lucky I might even pass out for a while.
This is a bad pain day. I have far too many of these.
So, here's what I mean by a bad pain day.
When my alarm went off, I was already exhausted. I don't sleep well at night; I keep trying to roll over onto my bad knee, which wakes me up and leaves me staring at the ceiling until the pain dies down. So the alarm goes off and Guinness jumps off the bed to be my brace so I can actually stand up and grab the walker. I yell at the kids to get moving and make my way to the bathroom.
I generally use the walker in the mornings. The doors in my house are the same width as my wheelchair, so getting from room to room is difficult at best. I'm in full flare, though, so every time I move with the walker, pain shoots up my wrists and radiates across my back and shoulders. My "good" foot is having fasciitis problems, so standing on it feels like standing on a small canvas bag stuffed with marbles and nails.I have a bad tendency to try to balance myself with my bad leg; it ends up feeling like my knee is being twisted out of socket. This is what I get with every.freaking.step.
There are 6 steps to the toilet, 14 to the kitchen, 27 to the car.
I get the kids up, dressed, fed and out to the car. I can't dose up on pain meds yet because I have to get them to school. By the time we wait through the 20 minute drop-off line, I'm starting to cry from the pain of the redhot iron poker that's replaced my spinal column. I'm so tired I'm having problems keeping my eyes focused on the way home.
I stop at the gas station for a quick hit of sugar and caffeine before I drive off the road. I bite my lip hard enough to bleed as I shuffle-hop to the back door of the car to pull the walker out. The pain of using it hasn't let up. As I'm heading toward the door I get shouldered aside by a pair of day laborers. They make a comment about fucking cripples never getting out of the way. Needless to say they don't bother holding the door, so I get to struggle with pulling it open, maneuvering the walker (which is bulky enough to need two hands) and keeping my balance. The laborers find this entertaining. Sunny the manager is kind enough to go grab my soda for me instead of me stumping through the whole store. I paste on a bright smile and thank him profusely before heading out. Fortunately getting the door open from the inside is a lot easier as long as I remember to lead with my butt.
I make it home, finally take my pain pills and stagger to my bed. Once the meds kick in I'll be able to stop crying. If I'm lucky I might even pass out for a while.
This is a bad pain day. I have far too many of these.
