Tentative yay

As a general rule, when I walk more than about three miles in a day I regret it (which is to say, I end up moaning, "I'm dying! I'm dying!"). Feeling very tired of being cooped-up, I walked four miles yesterday. I am currently in pain, but not in agony. I also don't feel like I'm about to pass out. Whee!

The day is young, though, so things could change...

So far, a Good Day

After walking four miles yesterday, I was fully prepared to spend today in bed moaning and groaning unable to stagger much farther than the kitchen without fear of passing out. That's what I did the last time I tried walking four miles in one day, and the time before that, and the time before that. But today, somehow, I not only didn't feel like death warmed over, but I managed to walk a couple more miles. I am tired, but not devoid of all energy. I am in pain, but not curled up in a fetal position whimpering please God let me die let me die let me die. I'd like to be able to get rid of this stupid headache, but I'll live.

Before I got sick, I could walk eight miles in a day and still be able to get through my schoolwork and leisure activities with no problem. Even a few years after I got sick, my main problems were with pain and the beloved cognitive dysfunction (aka "brain fog") associated with fibromyalgia (among other chronic ailments), so I could walk two or three miles without much thought. Then in late 1994, after a few very good months when I thought I might even be able to go back to school sometime, everything fell apart--problems with my circulatory system, digestive system, reproductive system, respiratory system, everything--and by early 1995, I had difficulty walking even a quarter-mile without my blood pressure dropping to levels unable to sustain ordinary consciousness. (Some people who like to believe everyone else's health problems are due to a pathetic inability to deal with the pressures of life have tried to tie my rapid decline in health in late 1994 with my father's death in spring 1995. They figured the man's ailing health must've stressed me out too much in autumn 1994 and his slow decline was too much for my poor spirit to handle. To which I must respond, "Sorry, meningitis is pretty much never a long-term disease. Please play again.")

Anyway, ever since late 1994 I've considered any mile I manage to walk something of a triumph. Today I'm feeling pretty darn triumphant, as well as profoundly grateful.

(no subject)

When I was a child, I would spend hours in the bathtub acquainting myself with the worlds in the soap bubbles. I rubbed a little soap and a little water between my little fingers and blew cautiously, taking care that the bubble would grow as big as it could but not so big it would burst. Then I would watch, mesmerized by the swirling iridescent colors before me. Each band of color was a different civilization. Each tiny speck was a person with a fascinating life and many stories to tell that I would never be able to hear. Red, green, or blue, I loved them all.

I would breathe on the world, ever so gently, trying to get the different cultures to mingle, trying to help them get to know one another. When a bubble popped, I would mourn. And then, so that the people could be reborn, I would create a new bubble, cupping the world gently in my palm, praying that it would never break.