transformations elsewhere

Mal's murmuring persona bears witness to some TRANSFORMATIONS

BEST FRIENDS

A generalized sluggishness pervades my being, marginally more so than is my norm. Yesterday, the day being somewhat brighter than of late, decided to take a modestly longer walk than I usually manage, in the (misguided) belief that it may alleviate the droningly throbbing pain in the left thigh. I almost overdid the exercise and, found myself struggling as we tackled the homeward bound section. At least it proffered no more than the usual degree of tiredness and discomfort by way of reward; I suppose that’s progress of some kind.

Although you may find it difficult to believe, I don’t really like moaning on about my assorted aches and pains, it’s quite simply that they are my most constant companions; I feel the same obligation to report upon them as I would were I to boast about or describe the achievements of best friends. [Yes, I admit it; best friends can at times be a pain too!]

Trouble with the aches and pains is, they never seem to know when one needs time to be on their own. There are times when I would appreciate the absence of their company!

Mal's Cold Feet

Mal has been Murmuring again, this time about The Chef's Cold Feet. Why not visit 'Mal's Murmurings' to see what's cooking!

Quite Simply Breathtaking

Just as well I received the CUPPA THERAPY boost to my morale yesterday; otherwise, I would be feeling quite morose this morning. Last night’s bed rest was intermittently disrupted by intense discomfort in the lower limbs; a dully throbbing sense of bruised hollowness affected both limbs but, more emphatically on the left hand side. I felt less comfortable than I had in the previous position, no matter which way I turned, nor how slowly, within minutes of each move. This, combined with a vengeful return of the night sweats, ensured that any bout of sleep would prove less than refreshing.

At 9.40am, my light slumber was disturbed by a thunderous hammering at the door accompanied by a seemingly panic stricken sustained ringing of the bell. By the time I’d groggily disbanded the duvet, and donned my dressing gown, two large boxes were resting at the side of the door and the delivery man, from Argos, was carrying another couple of parcels. He asked me to sign for them but, I questioned whether he’d come to the right address; the outcome was that he was on the right road but at the wrong number. Our house number is clearly displayed adjacent to the door! I dread to think what I’d have said were the benefits of yesterday’s therapy still not apparent on the emotional front.

Having dragged myself back upstairs, decided it was perhaps time to get dressed and confront the day head on. Seated on the edge of the bed, I carefully placed one leg into the top of my trousers when the spine, or quite probably the muscles attached thereto, decided to deliver a short sharp shock. Now that’s what I call a breathtaking experience! A few painkillers, and a generous Ibuprofen rub later, I have returned to my more comfortably familiar sense of dis-ease.

Fortunately, I have no immediate need to venture far from my comfortably supportive armchair.

Therapeutic Cuppa

This morning Malcolm submitted himself to some CUPPA THERAPY. Why not read of the results on 'Mal's Murmurings'.

Normal Service will be resumed

It really feels good to see ma belle back more to her normal self; the fact that she was able to taste the chicken paprika I’d prepared for Sunday dinner is just an added bonus. Sadly, she had to miss her surgery’s belated Christmas dinner on Friday night but, she should be well enough to return to work tomorrow, although she will forgo her Bible Study group in the evening.

This morning she took the service at Killinghall chapel and, perhaps three short talks (as it was a family service) took less toll on the congested vocal cords than the usual sermon. What she missed most was not being able to sing along with the hymns as she realized that would only start off a bout of coughing. I don’t mean to say her singing’s that bad, that the congregation would try to drown it out, but rather that laughing and singing are two activities destined to activate her own coughs and splutters.

The rest of the day has been spent in relative idleness as I’ve struggled to keep my eyes open, and my head in non-giddy mode. Just sitting beside, or opposite, my beloved makes me feel so content, as well as relieved that her recovery is well under way. It’s difficult to understand how I ever managed a life without her

Jaded Guilt

A rather jaded Mal has just posted 'The Guilt Game' on his Murmurings.

Self Pity?

I currently seem to be sinking into the kind of morose, self-pitying frames of reference that used to be the result of excessive alcohol consumption. Perhaps the cause is the teetotalism that I’ve been practising these past few days; there’s just no winning in these situations.

Truth be told, self-pity is barely part of my vocabulary these days; I tend to cope reasonably well with the slings and arrows that ME/CFS ensures my flesh is heir to, I don’t really have much choice in the matter. Ever since Julie, at the Chronic Fatigue Unit, grounded me in the principles of pacing, I’ve managed to avoid the worst excesses of my former ‘boom and bust’ circle of activity/inactivity and, for that I’m extremely grateful.

What I’m finding difficult to cope with is the viral attack that my beloved currently has to cope with. I was already at a fairly low ebb, stamina-wise, before I started to apply myself to my nursemaid duties and, what really startles me, despite my youthful training as a student nurse, is that I’m finding it really difficult to cope with Helen being poorly. She is my life, my raison d’etre and, I just want to do more for her but feel quite helpless into the bargain. The self-pity is more rooted in this sense of helplessness, rather than the everyday reality of coping with me.

Q and E mirrored on Mal's Murmurings

A sequel, titled Mirror, Mirror ..., to the preceding two or three posts can be found on Mal's Murmurings.

Quasimodo and Esmeralda

The past few days have witnessed a hobbling Quasimodo climbing up into the tower to look after an ailing Esmeralda. Crookbacked and crablike I’ve ventured up the stairs, trying to tempt my beloved with a few hot drinks and the occasional poached meal. My Esmeralda’s complexion seems to keep ringing the changes between flushed and drained, as she shivers whilst simultaneously burning up. I actually find it quite disturbing when ma belle is reluctant to take on board either fluids or solids, yet at times she’s even finding it difficult to quaff sufficient water to aid the swallowing and absorbing of the paracetamol. In more normal times I suspect that the reservoirs must have difficulty in providing the copious volumes of liquid consumed by my good lady.

On the positive side, although I’ve not ventured outside of these four walls, I’m getting plenty of exercise – against my backs resistance and legs reluctance – as I tread the stairs. My beloved keeps saying that she shouldn’t feel so rotten because it’s only a virus; meantime, I keep thinking a virus is only a bug that the medicos fail to understand and are unable to deal with!

Spasmodic doses of co-codamol, together with rubs of ibuprofen gel, seem to keep the worst of my back pain in check, though neither supplies an adequate counter to the occasional locking of the spine.