I’m sure my regular word-drinkers have noticed that in the last few weeks, I haven’t said much about chronic pain. My fist-shaking-and-cursing has been reserved for my gut. It isn’t that my muscle and bone and nerve pain has gotten better; in fact, some of it worsened—the softening of my abdomen is putting extra strain on my lower back, and the weakening of my upper back muscles makes my shoulder throb more often than before.
So why the silence… Well, one almost forgets about broken doors, when the entire house is on fire. However, now that my eyeball and stomach fire-demons have been appeased, I can focus on the rest of my bits.
A week or so ago, I shared good news with friends on Facebook: my cornea ulcer is completely healed, so I can wear contact lenses again; and my gastroenterologist said that I could go back to eating a regular diet—I was on Low FODMAP for a while… and a Low Residue Diet before that. I’m still on medications, which might never go away (I’m not sure how I feel about that yet…), but that’s all right. One deals with things when one must, right?
I didn’t give you all the good news, though… I wanted to be greedy, and keep the yum to myself for a bit… But I’ve had enough time to adore the new possibilities, so some sharing is in order: after visits to my neurologist, microbiologist, and podiatrist, I was cleared to run again… as long as I keep the balance between “harm and hurt”.
Harm and Hurt are common topics in the life of a person living with chronic pain; especially when the illness or trauma responsible for the pain exists alongside other conditions (i.e. gastroenterological hell *yes, I’m pretty sure that’s the scientific name for it*). And when the one doing the pain-full living is a witchy Aries Marine (who tends to forget that she is no longer invincible, like when she was nineteen), then the importance of the difference between harm and hurt must become a mantra. It will always hurt to work out, but I have to be careful not to push my body hard enough to harm it.
I’m going for my first run/walk/hobble in a few hours. I need to lose the weight I put on during the strange dieting, medication musical chairs, and exercise restrictions (about 14 pounds). I must lose the extra yumminess because I can’t bring diabetes into the medical mess that is my sexy body. I must remind myself that I’m no longer a teenager or a twenty-ager; heck! I’m almost not a thirty-ager anymore… so need to take it s-l-o-w… or my tummy and nerve issues will remind me who’s driving the train.
I know how slow this process will be. I also know that it will be extremely hard on me—both, psychologically and physically. Still, deep inside, where the soul dances and cackles… I know, I know, I know that there isn’t a thing that Magaly Guerrero can’t adapt to or overcome. But I won’t promise that there won’t be considerable bitching and moaning while the deed is being done *cough, cough, cough*.
P.S. For the longest time, I wrongfully suspected that the items in the picture were a gift from my friend, Rommy. Partly because she has sent me a present in the past, and waited for me to guess that it came from her; but mostly because she is one of my few friends who would know that I would laugh like a lunatic when opening a package that contains Edward Gorey’s The Curious Sofa: a Porno-Graphic Work by Ogdred Weary, and Terry Pratchett’s Where’s My Cow? The running belt should have given me a clue, but it didn’t…
Anyhoo, to the one who sent me the gift (your wife told me *cough*), to the one who believed I could do this (even before others thought it medically possible), I promise that I will give it my all (and I will do it safely), only if you promise to continue to stay alive while you save lives.