white noise

For the last ten days, I’ve been gripped in the clutches of a nasty, menacing cold and now I’ve had me a sack full of it. DonedoneDONE. Time for it to pack its bags and move on. I’ve tried to be diligent about pacing and pain management, but there are just those days, like today, when it starts to catch up with me. It’s days like this when I am sorely tempted to push back, vie for control, gain a little momentum, and be merrily on my way. I know how detrimental such stubbornness can be, how easily it can zing from mild determination to driving myself into the ground, but still I find it a difficult urge to curtail. I can’t forget patience today; this above all else.

I can deal with most of my cold symptoms, but the ritual coughing fits that start right before bedtime and end around 4 a.m. have disturbed an already deranged Circadian rhythm. I’ve avoided taking Ambien in this state for fear that it will only tempt the glowing-eyed dragon visitations. Most Ambien-induced hallucinations I’ve experienced haven’t been too bad, likely because Ambien doesn’t seem to eradicate rational thought. Okokok, that’s really just the dvd player breathing fire and glowering at me. But, I’ve sat up long hours watching the walls or sofa melt, undulate, and breathe. Mostly I find the dragons emerge in the dark and from electronic components with glowing digits or knobs.

On the Fibro/CFS-side of me, if I could go to bed and make a career out of staring at blank walls, life would be complete. That’s the irritating part — that NOTHING seems to be the mode for today. Fuzzy vision, even wearing my reading glasses, bars me from reading a book; small print does all but vanish into the page. I look forward to the day when books come equipped with Ctrl +/- options.

At the moment, fear is my worst enemy; patience probably my greatest ally. I’m stuck, able only to articulate, “I feel like hell,” when it’s deeper, much deeper. I stand at the helm of a ship in ill-repair, which although it may conduct itself at my command, does so only with great concentration and effort. Everything is manual; no power steering, no power brakes, and the gears grind even though I’ve clutched.

I want to write and be creative, possibly work on a handmade journal or make embellishments from polymer clay, but it’s a strain to keep hold of a cohesive thought for long. Fatigue and the headache which resides at the base of my skull have drained the color around me. Movement is laborious, as though I’ve been suspended in ballistics gel. It seems I’m even further disconnected from reality than any heavy duty decongestant should be able to induce.

The muscles in my hands and forearms are stiff and sore, as if they’ve shrunk under my skin the way wet leather does when it has sat too long in the sun. My spine is the pike upon which some blood-thirsty barbarian has skewered my head. I loathe the “elevator sickness” that makes the ground unstable when I walk. Every step must be carefully calculated as I make my way down the stairs.

My shell, though, is cool as a cucumber. I may look a little tired, but I’m lightning fast in my turtle sort of way. I’ll move quietly most of the day, seeming little more than contemplative and possibly a little sad. Around prime-time, I’ll give up trying to be productive and plunk myself down on the sofa. For the length of a rerun of Without a Trace and an episode of Medium, I’ll let the TV curdle my brain.

If I’m lucky tonight, the coughing fit won’t come and I’ll be that much closer to the end of this cold. I’ll snuggle down with a sleepy Jon beside me and a tiger named Teddy wrapped around my neck to cradle my noggin. I will be thankful, too; stuffing tissue up my nostrils is no longer necessary.