Perhaps I would be more patient with things if I had hurt my back in some obvious way, like, say, lifting a Volkswagen off of some poor helpless puppy. Or if I were patient to begin with.
Leaving aside the actual pain, it’s really really frustrating.
I cannot go at my usual speed. I cannot go at half my usual speed. I have to remember all those ways of getting from lying to sitting to standing that I’ve never needed before. And I have to use them, rolling carefully to my side, tilting myself up with my arm, and lifting the body with my legs, because my usual jackknife method isn’t exactly working for me right now.
Brent has made me promise not to lift anything while he’s out working in his office because I carried a basket of laundry upstairs. I feel like some useless Victorian wife, doomed to fainting on the sofa, too fragile to make more than the most languid movements. I’m dressed wrong for that, though, so I won’t be able to join the club.
Right now, actually, I’m not hurting. For the moment I will attribute this to the homeopathic stuff I took. (If you think it’s a crock, please don’t tell me because apparently I believe in it enough that I’m at least having a very nice placebo effect.) (And it worked better than the two trips to the chiropractor and the Advil.) (And I’m scared of Kaiser in this instance because someone said something about shots and interventions and lots of pain medication.) What I’m trying to deal with is the fear of hurting. I want to DO STUFF. I don’t want someone else to have to carry my groceries or deal with the dishwasher. Not that I object to help; help is always nice; it’s my NEED for it that I object to. I don’t want to have to think carefully about every move.
This just in: I don’t always get what I want.
Perhaps then, I’m getting what I need: a forcible slow-down.
End of whining.