I’m updating on the right day. Go me.
I’m back home from my trip to the frozen north to see my mother in hospital. She’s doing remarkably well for a woman her age with osteoporosis but they still haven’t operated on her broken shoulder. My youngest brother, who is coordinating the family response, is having trouble finding out what the doctors actually plan to do about it and when they plan to do it.
We’re also all still having trouble getting my mother to answer her damn phone. The mobile phone industry needs to get to work and develop the perfect phone for her. It would have flashing lights like a police car and an alert with the volume of an air raid siren so she knows when someone is calling. Also handcuffs so she can’t lose it.
I’m back home but I’m discovering that I used up a reservoir of spoons I didn’t know existed on my trip. As a result I feel like I’ve mined out new veins of exhaustion. I’ve also spent a week without wearing my medical grade compression leggings. I can’t walk anywhere without feeling like I’ve been stabbed in the calves and my left knee is being a total bitch. It is just not a team player. Still, it’s better than a couple of broken arms.
I haven’t done any more spinning so I can only assume that I continue to be crap at it. I have done some Tunisian* crochet and I’ve discovered that I’m really out of practice with it. I feel like I might be ready to really get into Tunisian because I’m starting to see the possibilities.
I haven’t done much writing but I am listening to a new audio book and that’s writing adjacent. It’s High Rise by JG Ballard, read by Tom Hiddleston. I might write more about it later because I have thoughts but it’s probably a good idea to finish it first.
I did finally get back to looking at my completed novel again, the one I tried queering but then gave up on because I started to suspect that either I’d fucked up the opening or it just wasn’t the right time. There might be a couple of things I can do to it to make it better. I still don’t hold out a lot of hope but it’s something to do while I wait for the inevitable stupid apocalypse.
*Tunisian crochet is halfway between knitting (two long needles holding a lot of loops at once and working the whole row of stitches) and crochet (one short hook working a single stitch at a time). It’s one long hook and that picks up a whole row of loops and then works each stitch individually. The finished fabric is similar to knitting and has a clear front and back but is thicker, like crochet.
Last week I fell in the shower.
My able-bodied readers will probably be a little worried by that statement but reassured that I must be fine if I’m blogging about it. My spoonie readers will be wincing. Us spoonies know how particularly awful it is to fall in the shower.
Allow me to explain. I fall over a lot and I’m rarely injured because I know a little about falling safely. But when you fall in the shower no amount of breakfall technique will save you from injury because there just isn’t the room. When you fall in the shower it will be awkward, you will hit something hard, your body will get twisted.
The second big problem with a shower fall is getting up afterward. You’re on a smooth, wet surface that’s covered in soap. You are also wet and covered in soap. And so are all the hand holds. There’s not enough room to roll over and get onto your knees so unless you fell that way round you’re going to have difficulty getting to your feet. That’s assuming it’s even possible to get up.
In my case it was a close run thing. I twisted my right leg badly and injured my good knee (let’s be honest it’s really only the slightly less shitty knee). I couldn’t get my weight onto my feet. I couldn’t roll over. I had to inch out of the shower stall on my bum, get to the top of the stairs and use the top step to get to my feet. It was horrible. It’s been more than a week and my knee might actually be getting worse.
You might wonder why I haven’t been to the doctor for treatment. That’s because there’s no point. I know from experience that they’re not going to do anything. If I had been forced to call an ambulance to get me up they might have x-rayed my knee but since I haven’t broken anything nothing would have showed up. I’ve probably done some horrible soft tissue damage but since I’m not a hot young athlete there’s no possibility of surgery. Nobody cares how much pain you’re in when you’re an impoverished, fat, old woman.
My knee will either get better or it won’t. There’s not much I can do either way.
This week I lost the same 200g that I gained last week and lost the week before. I’m not complaining because I’ve had to step back from the diet plan I was following due to the ‘Beast from the East’ disrupting food deliveries.*
That’s not what I’m going to focus on today. I’m feeling a lot more thoughtful about how being a Spoonie ( a person with a chronic health problem, see here for an explanation of Spoon Theory) affects attempts to eat healthily.
You’d think that having a chronic health problem would make it more important that I stick to some kind of healthy eating plan and you’d be right. But you’d also be wrong because for us Spoonies everything has to be balanced. Any spoons I spend on meal planning are spoons I won’t have later should I need to pay some bills. Any spoons I spend on preparing a nutritious meal are spoons I can’t spend on cleaning up afterwards.
Often the Spoonie life means half assing a bunch of things because if you spend the spoons to do any of them properly it’ll be the only thing you do that day. All those partially solved problems become a cascade of further problems. So instead of doing the laundry OR cleaning the kitchen OR working on my novel I end up putting some stuff in the tumble dryer, wiping down one kitchen surface and fixing exactly one scene. So the next day I have laundry that’s not put away, a hob and a sink that still need cleaned and one slightly less shitty scene that mainly succeeds in making the rest of the novel looking bad.
Not that any of this means I’m giving up on my diet. I’ve got a doctor to prove wrong.
*For people outside the UK the ‘Beast from the East’ was a polar vortex weather system that plunged the whole country into arctic temperatures for a week. It wasn’t just that the temperatures were very low it’s that the temperatures were that low pretty much everywhere so the road clearing services were stretched very thin. It also didn’t help that so much snow fell that our usual tactic of gritting the roads so that the snow melts faster and vehicles can maintain grip was rendered useless.
When you’re a Spoonie ( person with a chronic life limiting illness but see the link for more details) people tend to assume that your problems all come directly from your illness without ever seeing how the secondary problems proliferate.
You’re in pain and the pain means you can’t sleep and the lack of sleep causes its own problems. The constant mental work of managing your very limited mental resources end up costing more of those resources. Your coping mechanisms have coping mechanisms.
At least once a year I burn or scald myself because my brain is on automatic pilot and I’m trying to do something that’s necessary for me to function.This time I stuck my whole right hand into my coffee filter cup while it was full of near boiling water. Then tipped the whole thing, grounds and all, all over the kitchen. Then I forgot I was wearing rings and had to strip them off after my fingers had started swelling.
I got lucky. Most of the swelling went down with a combination of cold running water as long as I could stand it and then sitting with an ice pack on the remaining swelling. But it’s annoying. And I never got my coffee. And I have a enough swelling on my right ring finger that it’s put a serious dent in my typing speed.
Now there’s no obvious line between Fibromyalgia and a burn. But I’m pretty sure that this burn happened because one of the consequences of Fibromyalgia is having to go about my day with a considerable portion of my brain either distracted by pain or working to manage my symptoms or my spoons.
Most of the Spoonies I know pick up multiple injuries a year as a result of their primary condition. Falls because their balance is wrecked, scrapes because they’re not fully aware of their surroundings, self inflicted cuts caused by trying to prep food while half asleep. And the worse bit usually isn’t the physical injury. It’s feeling like an idiot. Here I am, a full grown adult, and I stuck my hand in scalding hot water out of my own incompetance.
So the “getting used to rejection project” which started back in May has finally come to fruition. The agent got back to me. He wanted my novel for a particular publisher that, as of two weeks ago, decided they were only looking for straight crime series novels and romance. He’s working full time for the publisher and can’t spare the time to represent me.
I have to say I am surprised by my own reaction. I’m really not particularly upset about it. I’m a little upset about having to write more fucking query letters. I’m a little upset about having to tell people who were rooting for me. I’m really not looking forward to telling my Mother because she will surely launch into another conspiracy theory about how he was only after my manuscript to steal my novel.
In a bizarre turn I’m slightly pissed off to have got the bad news so quickly. Could he not have waited for me to finish tidying the house? Now I have to use my precious spoons to chase up agents and write query letters rather than clean the house.
Well I say I’m not particularly upset but I went out this afternoon and bought (amongst other things) loads of ice cream and crisps and then came back and had to lie down for two hours but that’s probably unrelated.
The other day I was regaling you will tails of my epic laundry fail. It turned out that failure was not done with me that day.
You see I had more chores to do. I had to leave the house and get on a bus and go to actual shops to buy things because I was out of deodorant and we were getting low on chocolate and cheese and that’s an emergency in my house. The chocolate and cheese is an emergency, the deodorant not so much. However it turned out that I had made a horrible miscalculation.
I knew when I was cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry that I had to save some spoons for going out (if you’re confused by the spoon reference please see this explanation of spoon theory). I thought I was being careful: I cut corners on the cleaning, I didn’t go looking for additional laundry, and I had a sit down and a decaff before leaving the house. It was all for naught because by the time I got off the bus on the way home I was moving in slow motion. When I actually got home my body was sending my brain so many error messages that I couldn’t speak properly. In short I was in negative spoons.
Being in negative spoons is no joke. Your body wont co-operate, your brain isn’t working properly and everything either hurts or is numb. And it doesn’t stop there. There’s a hangover from negative spoons. Those additional spoons I used that I didn’t actually have had to come from somewhere. They came from the future. When you’re in a spoon deficit it means that you’ve borrowed spoons from tomorrow and they must be re-payed with interest. But when you’re borrowing the spoons you don’t know how much interest you’ll be paying back or for how long. I could be paying back those spoons for days. And wearing pink while I do it.