The sickbed diaries IV

Still not a lot going on in the realms of sleep. I manage a short nap at 3ish but that’s about it. It’s at this point the feeling of fraud begins to creep up. Truth is, I’ve never really been ill, I’ve never broken anything (present issues excepted) and never been operated upon (see above). I had acute appendicitis once, but was so disgusted by the hospital I ended up in, my body realised that it was in more danger being operated on than by being left alone … I recovered by myself. When I was waiting for my discharge stuff, someone came in and started to wheel me out. I asked what they were doing. Taking you to theatre, they replied. I believe I was scrupulously polite in telling them to leave me the fuck alone. But that’s another story, for another day …

I’ve had none of the anaesthesia hangover that I hear tell of, no being off my food, no depression, no headache … no tiredness (well, not that isn’t directly applicable to not sleeping, anyhoo). I have people asking what they can do for me, and the only answer is nothing, really. I need just as much company as usual … though, to be fair, I could do with someone getting the rice out of the cupboard …

Perhaps it’s simply that I’ve used up my current illness quota with the PD. And it’s much on my mind. So much so tht yesterday I began to write about it. Not in a blogging sort of way, but more in a ‘here’s a book on PD for you’ sort of way. I can’t decide on a format, however. If I back to when I was being diagnosed, what would I have appreciated? A Very Short Introduction to PD? A more memoir/novel/autobiography sort of thing? Perhaps a biography … my life in Pete … hmm. What to write, what to write …

And then there’s the thorny issue of how to sell it. I already have what I think is a really strong kids’ book and a novel which is nearing first draft completion which I have no clue how to deal with …

Oh! Pain! Ok, more of a twinge – but is this good, or bad? Does it indicate healing, or something else entirely?

The thing with pain, whether it is emotional or physical, is that it tells us we’re alive. Sometimes we keep scratching at the same wound because we’re scared that if we don’t, we’ll forget how to feel – how to feel pleasure, how to feel love.


It’s strangely chilly in my new abode, and as I sit on my bed and type ginger is poking his nose through the gap in the sash window. Longingly.

I am in pain, of various types and in various parts of my anatomy. Not all of this pain is a result of being severally bitten by ginger. Every time I grind to a halt, he takes it as an indication that it is necessary to bite my feet. But stillness is one of the ways that I can dull the other pain.

I am by nature a hard-working and physically fit individual, and yet at this juncture I find myself bereft of gainful employment and broken in several ways. My left shoulder is in almost constant pain, my right shoulder is tweaking, I have tennis elbow, a possibly broken thumb, and either mild groin strain or the beginnings of a hernia.

The perfect time to move house, hump boxes of books up and down stairs and do stuff, stuff, and more stuff. The world shifts, but I feel more and more at sea as my surroundings sift and change along with it. Each time I move, I unpack fewer things, and more boxes stay unopened, undisturbed, contents largely unremembered. Those things I do unpack are not those things that I consider useful, but those things which remind me of who I am, or whom I am meant to be.

I now reside in someone else’s world, even though that someone else now inhabits someone else’s world. Interchangeable worlds. Adjustable worlds.

The move aggravated every part of my body. I am used to feeling physically in control, in command, on top of things. Now I am in constant pain. I have no idea how so many parts of me have broken so quickly. And with injuries I cannot exercise as much as I ought … which aggravates everything.

And as if that were not enough, I am having major communication problems. It’s odd how so much happens all at once. This is the way of it.

Ginger is now curled up at my feet, half laid on my calves, his ear flapping as it just touches me. I cannot move without waking him.

Ginger spends the day poking his nose through the gap at the bottom of the open sash window. He wishes to be set free, and watches the sun all day.