I don't know
I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to say. There was a plan, of course there was. I always have a plan.
I was going to write about the things I want for Mother’s Day. And I was going to write about what designing and building my garden is teaching me about disability and healing. And I was going to write about how we’re STILL getting self-care wrong on a really fundamental level.
And then the pain…
My teeth hurt. It’s a constant pain level of 3 or 4 that spikes to an 8 if I try to eat or drink the wrong thing, or I move my mouth the wrong way, or one of the nerves in my mouth gets cranky.
Some of this is because of inflammation that we can’t quite get under control. Some of it is because I’ve had horrid oral hygiene over the last few years. I have a wonderful dentist and we’re working through everything bit by bit. But two years in bed has all kinds of consequences that I just never saw coming. Multiple cavities, root canals, crowns, and infections are just a few.
It feels like a cruel trick has been played on me by the universe. I’m recovering some energy, but now I have to use it all on repairing the damage done while I had no energy.
The pain kicks off panic attacks, which lead to migraines, which add to the panic. Then the thoughts come…
I won’t ever get to be the mom I want to be.
I won’t ever get to finish my garden.
I won’t ever get to write that book.
I won’t ever get out of this damn bed.
It won’t ever stop hurting.
I spent yesterday in serious pain and panic. I also made an appointment with my dentist, and one with my doctor, did about five minutes in the garden, took a shower, and spent about an hour with the kids when they came home from school. I needed Adam’s help to do some of those things - but I did them.
Today the pain is a pretty steady four - and it’s all over my body. Everything hurts and my nerves are jagged and raw, but so far there’s no panic.
Tomorrow? I don’t know.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to ‘mom’ more actively.
I don’t know how long it will take me to finish my garden.
I don’t know if or when I’ll be able to write my book.
I don’t know how long I’ll be able to be out of bed today.
I don’t know what my pain level will be.
For someone who loves plans, lists, and structure this is a special kind of hell. It feels like a punishment. It feels like a very personally designed torture. I am trying to accept everything that I don’t know.
