Around 11 last night, it started raining hard enough to turn all the pipes on the roof into little dissonant steel drums. My sense of what keeps a house from surrendering to noxious fluids and vapors is vague at best. It’s only during a hard rain that I know for certain where the all the exhaust vents emerge atop the house.
I awoke to the sounds of the same hard rain this morning. I’ve already done the dishes, started the laundry, and done some basic grocery shopping this morning. I really should fold the clothes. When the dryer starts dinging, it’s like a siren call of domestic duty–fold me now, lest you need to dust off the dreaded iron.
I will resist that call in favor of writing a bit. I don’t think there’s anything in that dryer that can’t be unwrinkled with a few minutes of fluffing.
I suppose it’s a cardinal sign of self-absorption to the start several paragraphs in a row with the word I. Indeed this post focuses on me and my recent struggles.
In sharing these problems, I hope that I am not merely alienating my readers. It is not impossible that some of you have endured the same or similar trials. If that is the case for you, I hope you find some solace in seeing a kindred spirit emerge from similar adversity.
I am just arising from flare-ups of chronic pain and depression that spanned three months. It began with hip pain and ended with the worst variant of sciatica that I’ve ever had the misfortune of feeling.
I did have a few random days I felt no pain at all. All the while, I had no pain unless I was moving. To feel no pain at rest is a blessing ordinarily taken for granted. I recently joined a Facebook support group for people who’ve had spinal fusion surgery. My first impression was how fortunate I am among that cohort of patients. Compared to that group of patients, my burden is light. I don’t struggle to sleep because of pain. I can work.
Here is the thing I gleaned from reading those stories: The only pain you know is your own, and it should not be discounted just because someone else has suffered more. There were moments of my most recent sciatica episode that afforded me the worst pain I’ve ever felt. It’s a pain that does not season you pleasantly with wisdom or humility. Instead, it just makes you bitter that it happened, a rude surprise that you still had a little innocence left to steal.
It all ended with a moment akin to the last bolt of lightning that flashes at the end of a storm. I was putting away laundry and leaned over to open one of my clothes drawers, a drawer that is heavy with clothes that need pruning. I felt rushed (for no good reason) to finish the laundry, so I stayed bent over at the same awkward angle as I closed the drawer. As I pushed it closed, I felt a bizarre stretching in my lower back, and the ends of my spinal fusion felt like they were sparking with a bit of heat.
I straightened myself out, dreading that I might have complicated hereditary lumbar degeneration with a careless accident. As I walked down the hallway from my bedroom, I realized that something quite different had happened. My sciatica was gone. My awkward maneuver made a supremely lucky adjustment, one that I couldn’t repeat in a hundred tries.
I am still contending with the ordinary legacy of ongoing recovery from my spinal fusion surgery, which presents a random array of numbness and nerve pains. It is a calm I’ve not known for long since the height of summer.
I’m devoting this time before the holiday rush to some deeper rest. I’ve been digging into some Agatha Christie stories, both in print and on television. Actually, Agatha Christie is an author I willfully ignored until now, dismissing her body of work as trite without having read a line of her work. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how witty and sometimes bawdy her prose can be. The stories I’ve read and seen on screen are reminders that the moral compass of humanity isn’t degenerating more with each succeeding generation. The good and bad have always existed, only the fashions and technology have changed.
I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how witty and sometimes bawdy her prose can be. The stories I’ve read and seen on screen are reminders that the moral compass of humanity isn’t degenerating more with each succeeding generation. The good and bad have always existed; only the fashions and technology have changed.
With that written, I will now attend to folding the laundry, avoiding any foolish haste with the pushing and pulling of drawers.