This is the blouse I wore the day my brain bled. To quote EFG, it was made from a fiber “not found in nature,” and did not require ironing, which is exactly why I chose to wear it to work that day. It was getting a little ragged so I’m not very broken up about the fact that it got cut up and was discarded in the fray. FYI my jeans and boots survived – yay! Thank you, medical people. They also took my contacts out (eww) and neatly packed my jewelry for my parents. Too bad I have no hope of wearing those jeans (way too small/long) or boots (3” wedges) right now, but maybe one day. Okay, things aren’t looking to favorable for the shoes, but I’m still hopeful.
Saying goodbye to that shirt is symbolic in that it’s part of how I’m acknowledging that things have changed. I think most significantly (besides me being a Rehab Junkie) is that I’m now a writer. I write books and I have a blog and apparently I’m quite a prolific producer of the written word. The reason is that writing is pretty much the only thing that makes me feel better.
Playing the piano does not make me feel better, hence Mommy’s insistence that I practice. It has improved but the sound is still too different from what I hear in my head for me to enjoy. Exercising was my other form of enjoyment but now it’s my job, not an enjoyable pursuit. It’s also hampered by my impairments, which isn’t fun for me.
So even though it costs me some significant effort (in terms of eye-work and finger coordination) to sit here and type I do it anyway because it makes me feel better, even if no one reads it. When I was sick a couple of weeks ago I wrote like 4 posts in my head while lying in bed and almost gave the Dragon app another try, but I prefer to type rather than speak.
On the day I realized that pedaling for 3 hours daily on Weezy (my recumbent bike, named for Louise Jefferson) made no difference in my drug-induced weight gain, I was intensely sad since I was sure that burning more calories than I consumed would help me. That’s common sense, right? Well, as I’ve said before, all bets are off concerning my body’s current state. So I made my way upstairs and wrote about it – like 6 pages by hand, which was a huge effort – and the result was that those pages were the start of the 2nd half of my “Memoirs,” Learning How to Wait.
Waiting is not my strong suit. Nor is embracing change my favorite activity in the world, so this whole recovery thing has been…interesting. Many things are different, but some are the same, e.g.
Different: I’m wearing nail polish (black); I wear swimming gear in public; I have a blog; I laugh louder and more often
Same: I can’t sing or dance; My family is SO funny; My friends are also SO funny; I laugh at inappropriate times