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Feb. 18th, 2006 10:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_rckSo, I'm sick again. Really sick as in how I was last summer. As some of you may have gathered, I've been borderline sick for the last couple of months, since round about Thanksgiving. My asthma's been unusually bad, to the point that I pretty much had to give up my walking program (even with my inhaler, I could only manage about five minutes. The air in the basement, where the treadmill lives, is too cold and dusty), and I've been having allergic reactions to cat hair on other people's clothing when they visit our house. I've also been reacting to things I've never been allergic to before.
Then, about three weeks ago, I came down with a cold. That set off my asthma, and now I'm really sick. Again. This has happened three times in my life and twice in the last year.
This time out, the illness has been both harder and easier. It's been easier because I at least have some idea of what's going on and what to do about it. It's been harder because cold weather makes my asthma worse in general and because Delia is bigger and more demanding. Some of her behavior results from her age. She'd be pushing boundaries anyway, given that she'll be three in May. Some of it, though... I think she's trying to make sure that she gets my attention. If she does things I've told her not to, then I *have* to react and make her stop.
Some of the Delia stuff has been sweet. We've done a lot of cuddling, and she's started trying to maneuver so that we let her fall asleep in my lap at bedtime rather than sticking her into bed. (That's a hard one because a snuggly, sleepy toddler is a very pleasant armful. There's a lot of joy in being trusted that much, and we know that, as she grows up, opportunities for this sort of thing will become rarer and rarer.) She's also, however, been trying to order me to be well, not to take medications, not to visit the bathroom and so on. I think that the idea that I don't have a choice about such things scares her a bit. All of this can result in long periods of utter misery for me as I try to get fifteen minutes to shower or even just a chance to sit and rest.
I'm sleeping in the living room, on the loveseat. I was having a horrible time sleeping, getting maybe an hour or two a night because of the coughing, so I decided that I'd try relocating to see if that would help at all. Surprisingly, it's helped a lot. I can actually sleep for two to four hours at a stretch out here. It's less comfortable than our bed but apparently less toxic. Cleaning out the bedroom is a project that Scott will be undertaking some time real soon.
I'm actually fairly impatient for the room cleaning. The loveseat is too short for comfort, and I miss having Scott there with me. It's also kind of weird to have all of my stuff just nakedly out where any visitor can see it (I can't currently move the bedding. The blankets are too heavy), and our cleaning lady disassembled everything and put it away last week. I was kind of mad about that because I'd asked her specifically not to. I think that she didn't understand what I meant. Her spoken English isn't always great, and she hates to ask for clarification.
Scott applied for and got some emergency vacation time for next week. We're hoping that that will give me some time to rest and recover. We're also hoping that he can manage to do some of the work that needs doing around here.
I think we're going to have to look hard at our house. My mother's of the opinion that we should throw out about 75% of our possessions (including about 95% of our books). It's true that doing that might help my allergies because it would leave the dust, mold and mice less of a place to hide, but... Having the books around gives me joy. I could get rid of some of my clothes. I've hesitated to do so because I don't want to have to buy more as the stuff I currently wear starts to fall apart. Instead, I just rotate in some of the stuff I wasn't wearing before. I've also hesitated because I don't know what's going to happen with my weight. I've still got baby weight (can I still call it that nearly three years later?), and I'm still planning to get my exercise program going again, but each time I get really sick, I gain weight.
My mother says that it's a matter of priorities. I rather suspect, though, that she would be appalled by my priorities. She's never quite understood what it is that gives me joy in life. Given her frequent complaints about her parents not understanding and accepting the things she does for her own pleasure, I'm a little surprised that she has the same blindness when looking at me. Maybe I shouldn't be. (Grandma used to garden and have cats. Grandpa loved boating and fishing. Mom adores remodeling/renovating houses and has started getting into geneaology. Grandpa still tells her that she's wasting her time and money.)
But I'm going to be thinking about my priorities for the next little while. Delia's first, then Scott. After that... After that, it gets muddled. I think that my books, my online communications (e-mail, LJ, AIM, online rp), my writing and my face to face role playing and social interactions (such as they are) are all pretty much clustered together. Once those are covered, I seem to be in the territory of things like wanting clothing that doesn't hurt to wear, wanting to be warm enough or cool enough, wanting food that doesn't make me ill, wanting to avoid things that make my physical problems worse, wanting to avoid things that make my psychological problems worse. I'm not sure how to rate any of that as a 'priority.' All of it seems nebulous, hard to quantify or to specify.
I wonder if some of that nebulousness isn't simply a result of assuming that certain things are out of reach. I don't, for example, think that there's any set of circumstances that will let me get rid of my anxieties or my physical pain/limitations. I can work around both to some extent, but it leaves my life a series of on-going and poorly defined compromises, especially since both sets of problems have squishy rather than hard limits. For example, I'm officially not supposed to lift more than 15 pounds at a time. In practice, I usually can manage up to about 25 pounds without injuring myself. Usually. For a short time and distance, say from one end of our house to the other. But if I do it too often or at the wrong time, I get hurt to the point of not being able to lift a bottle of grape juice. How often is too often? I don't know. It depends on how much sleep I've had recently (and how well I've slept). It depends on what else I've done recently.
The spoons analogy really does work to some extent. Except that the number of spoons required for doing things isn't constant.
Then, about three weeks ago, I came down with a cold. That set off my asthma, and now I'm really sick. Again. This has happened three times in my life and twice in the last year.
This time out, the illness has been both harder and easier. It's been easier because I at least have some idea of what's going on and what to do about it. It's been harder because cold weather makes my asthma worse in general and because Delia is bigger and more demanding. Some of her behavior results from her age. She'd be pushing boundaries anyway, given that she'll be three in May. Some of it, though... I think she's trying to make sure that she gets my attention. If she does things I've told her not to, then I *have* to react and make her stop.
Some of the Delia stuff has been sweet. We've done a lot of cuddling, and she's started trying to maneuver so that we let her fall asleep in my lap at bedtime rather than sticking her into bed. (That's a hard one because a snuggly, sleepy toddler is a very pleasant armful. There's a lot of joy in being trusted that much, and we know that, as she grows up, opportunities for this sort of thing will become rarer and rarer.) She's also, however, been trying to order me to be well, not to take medications, not to visit the bathroom and so on. I think that the idea that I don't have a choice about such things scares her a bit. All of this can result in long periods of utter misery for me as I try to get fifteen minutes to shower or even just a chance to sit and rest.
I'm sleeping in the living room, on the loveseat. I was having a horrible time sleeping, getting maybe an hour or two a night because of the coughing, so I decided that I'd try relocating to see if that would help at all. Surprisingly, it's helped a lot. I can actually sleep for two to four hours at a stretch out here. It's less comfortable than our bed but apparently less toxic. Cleaning out the bedroom is a project that Scott will be undertaking some time real soon.
I'm actually fairly impatient for the room cleaning. The loveseat is too short for comfort, and I miss having Scott there with me. It's also kind of weird to have all of my stuff just nakedly out where any visitor can see it (I can't currently move the bedding. The blankets are too heavy), and our cleaning lady disassembled everything and put it away last week. I was kind of mad about that because I'd asked her specifically not to. I think that she didn't understand what I meant. Her spoken English isn't always great, and she hates to ask for clarification.
Scott applied for and got some emergency vacation time for next week. We're hoping that that will give me some time to rest and recover. We're also hoping that he can manage to do some of the work that needs doing around here.
I think we're going to have to look hard at our house. My mother's of the opinion that we should throw out about 75% of our possessions (including about 95% of our books). It's true that doing that might help my allergies because it would leave the dust, mold and mice less of a place to hide, but... Having the books around gives me joy. I could get rid of some of my clothes. I've hesitated to do so because I don't want to have to buy more as the stuff I currently wear starts to fall apart. Instead, I just rotate in some of the stuff I wasn't wearing before. I've also hesitated because I don't know what's going to happen with my weight. I've still got baby weight (can I still call it that nearly three years later?), and I'm still planning to get my exercise program going again, but each time I get really sick, I gain weight.
My mother says that it's a matter of priorities. I rather suspect, though, that she would be appalled by my priorities. She's never quite understood what it is that gives me joy in life. Given her frequent complaints about her parents not understanding and accepting the things she does for her own pleasure, I'm a little surprised that she has the same blindness when looking at me. Maybe I shouldn't be. (Grandma used to garden and have cats. Grandpa loved boating and fishing. Mom adores remodeling/renovating houses and has started getting into geneaology. Grandpa still tells her that she's wasting her time and money.)
But I'm going to be thinking about my priorities for the next little while. Delia's first, then Scott. After that... After that, it gets muddled. I think that my books, my online communications (e-mail, LJ, AIM, online rp), my writing and my face to face role playing and social interactions (such as they are) are all pretty much clustered together. Once those are covered, I seem to be in the territory of things like wanting clothing that doesn't hurt to wear, wanting to be warm enough or cool enough, wanting food that doesn't make me ill, wanting to avoid things that make my physical problems worse, wanting to avoid things that make my psychological problems worse. I'm not sure how to rate any of that as a 'priority.' All of it seems nebulous, hard to quantify or to specify.
I wonder if some of that nebulousness isn't simply a result of assuming that certain things are out of reach. I don't, for example, think that there's any set of circumstances that will let me get rid of my anxieties or my physical pain/limitations. I can work around both to some extent, but it leaves my life a series of on-going and poorly defined compromises, especially since both sets of problems have squishy rather than hard limits. For example, I'm officially not supposed to lift more than 15 pounds at a time. In practice, I usually can manage up to about 25 pounds without injuring myself. Usually. For a short time and distance, say from one end of our house to the other. But if I do it too often or at the wrong time, I get hurt to the point of not being able to lift a bottle of grape juice. How often is too often? I don't know. It depends on how much sleep I've had recently (and how well I've slept). It depends on what else I've done recently.
The spoons analogy really does work to some extent. Except that the number of spoons required for doing things isn't constant.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-19 04:00 pm (UTC)I'd certainly recommend revisiting those, then. What was true at the time of the probably-valid decision Then doesn't necessarily mean it's still true or the decision's still valid Now. Maybe it is (bummer!), and maybe it isn't (hooray!), but you won't know unless you revisit.
[Hugs]. Good luck.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-20 05:21 pm (UTC)