Last night sparked another huge flare up, and I lie here in agony almost unable to move, I thought if I focused on the typing and what I was writing, I might be able to ignore the pain for a little bit at least.
I live in a constant cycle of pain and frustration and exhaustion and my good old friend guilt.
I have spoken before about the guilt that I feel and this flare up is the result of that guilt.
Yesterday I did too much, I am the first to admit it, but I did. I tried to make up for the fact that everyone works so hard and I am just at home. I made a beef casserole and dumplings from scratch, I then made home-made dog biscuits, because it was Brody’s 5th Birthday. (Yes we are the kind of people who celebrate our dog’s birthdays.) I also did washing and hung it out to dry. I sorted out the ironing from the other washing. I changed our bed, I cleaned the bathroom, I cleaned the kitchen and did all of the washing and drying up after everything that I made. I then had to keep checking on the casserole as it cooked. I then sorted out our bedroom and dressing room. They are both a mess as we have to much stuff and are trying to cram our lives in to 2 rooms at my mums until we can move out.
I changed the dogs beds. I did some other things too, too many to remember if I’m honest. I knew at the time it was a bad idea as my hips and back were hurting and starting to tighten after all the time I’ve spent on the floor doing the blackboards for the wedding.
Needless to say in true Emma style I didn’t listen to the early warning signs from my body. I couldn’t just stop doing all the things that needed doing or the things that I had already started. I couldn’t just stop, things had to be finished.
Then last night, about 7pm the flare up began… My lower back seized, my hips would barely move, and when they did I wanted to cry. I hid it from my mum, Harry was already out and at training. I told my mum I was tired and was going to bed. I made my way up to bed, every step was like climbing a mountain. Internally I was screaming in pain. I got up to my bedroom and I crumpled on to my bed. I wish this helped, but I didn’t. Not even with fresh sheets and my usually comfy bed which I love more than anything most days, my bed felt more like concrete. “A shower” I thought to myself, that might help. Getting up again was hell, I undressed, who knew that you could crack so much as you moved that you sound like you are mad of bubble wrap? I went to the bathroom, and I clambered in to the shower. The boiling water on my back felt amazing. I washed my hair, I love washing my hair. In fact, if I could I would employ someone to wash my hair every day for me. That is the stuff of dreams.
I stayed in there as long as I could, but whilst the warmth of the heat on my back felt amazing, standing there was agony. I got out, again not an easy thing.
I got changed in to my pyjamas and I climbed in to my bed. I switched on Netflix, and I tried to climb inside my bed. Instead in ended up on all fours, arse up, if Harry came home now he would think he was getting lucky. Instead I tried a few moves to try to stretch out the muscles, but it wasn’t working.
Harry finally came home, but by then I had managed to get off all fours and was walking around the kitchen. I was making a cup of tea. Now I was looking for things to do to take my mind off the pain. I was pacing. He asked what was wrong, but as he touched my back to give me a hug I flinched. I didn’t say anything, I don’t think I needed too, he knew I was hurting. He jumped in to the shower and I tried once more to get in to bed. This time, I didn’t even think about it, I just laid down. “I WILL GET COMFY!” I chanted in my head as I fidgeted about with the pillows and the different positions. I sat up straight again, and drank my tea, not even a hobnob to dunk in it was making it any better.
After his shower H joined me in bed, by this time my bed might as well have been made out of fire, because that’s what it felt like as I lay there. My hips and my legs and my side, and my tummy was burning. The muscles were getting so tight my ribs started to hurt. Breathing hurt, like flames licked my lungs kind of hurt.
A red-hot poker was being forced through my hips and up my legs. They are shaking with the pain and the tenseness in my muscles. My lower back is solid by this point. I am nearly crying externally now, instead of just internally.
Harry bought me this massager thing, and he used it on my back a bit, tonight it wasn’t helping though, it was like he was stabbing me.
Instead he stood up, and he grabbed my legs and he started trying to help me stretch out my hips. It felt good whilst he was doing it, but as soon as he stopped, I was in agony again.
He suggested that I read my book, I’ve been trying to finish it for months and I am so close to the end but I’ve been too busy to do it.
Maybe if I could get in to the book it would take my mind off the pain. I tried, I sat there, laid there, tried again and again to find a position that was comfy for me to read in. I tried to block it out, but the words on the pages were blurring, I couldn’t focus on it let a lone read it and take it in. My frustration began to build and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I began to cry. I sobbed to Harry that I can’t deal with the pain anymore. I can’t live like this, why can’t I just be normal again.
The ironic thing, crying about the pain just made the pain worse. The muscles seemed to tighten as every word came from my mouth. I managed to get on to my side, pillows put places that are meant to help, between my knees, by my feet, you know the usual bollocks, I was laying pretty much flat on the bed, the bed of fire.
Harry started rubbing my lower back. It was starting to help. He rubbed and he rubbed, until I calmed and the pain lessened a bit. He cuddled me and told me it’ll be ok, he told me he loved me. Slowly I drifted off, I was asleep for a little while before the pain kicked back in. The pain in my sides woke me, when those muscles tighten the ones across my stomach do and that pain is the worst pain I can ever imagine and have ever experienced. I can’t even describe it. It is almost like I can feel my skin and my adhesions under my skin pulling and stretching.
Every time I woke up due to the pain, Harry would stroke my back for a little bit to help me get back to sleep. This morning, I woke up, and I couldn’t move. I was paralysed. My mum came in to see me before she went to work, and I couldn’t even move my head to talk to her properly. She was worried I could see it in her eyes. The worrying got worse as she had to help me sit up a bit. She hasn’t had to help me this much since the ops. It feels as bad as then.
It has taken me over an hour to write all of this, because of having to stop and move about because of the pain.
She then asked if I wanted to go to hospital. I said no, not this time. She told me to stay in bed and rest today. Easier said than done though when the physical act of laying on the bed and resting is the thing that is causing you the pain that you need to rest from.
I haven’t washed up today, I’ve done nothing. Exactly as my mum told me to do, however Harry is due back at any moment and the anxiety I have about not having done the washing up from dinner last night is eating me alive. Sweaty palms, and guilt, that sick feeling, which is plainly due to the pain but partly because of the pain.
Maybe if I ran down now I could have started it before he gets home and it wouldn’t look so bad.
Ha who am I kidding? I can’t run downstairs. At this rate I’ll have just sat up in bed by the time he gets home. I’ve not been for a wee all day because that is how much pain I am in, I can’t get out of bed to wee. My mum called me on her lunch and I told her that and she offered to come home and take me to the toilet. I’m 27 years old and my mother is still helping me to the toilet. I was so embarrassed on that phone call, I just said I didn’t really need to go and that I’m sure if I REALLY needed to I could get there. Plus, she had to go and collect my prescription for me anyway, for all the drugs I need, which are meant to help me be pain-free and at least get to the fucking toilet.
You see, this isn’t only bad because I can’t get to the loo, but it means that Sammy and Brody haven’t been out for a wee since my mum went to work either. Luckily they are ok, neither of them have really left my side so I know that they aren’t needing it, they let me know when they do, and they aren’t the kind of dogs who would go off for a cheeky piss on the sofa and then come back.
So yes, the title of this blog isn’t a lie. My body is a prison. My body has kept me in my room today, it has kept my in my bed. My 6ft by whatever bed has been my entire world today. I haven’t eaten, because I couldn’t get down to make anything, I could only drink what I had already by the bed. Thank god, the Playstation controller and the TV remote, and my laptop were all within reaching distance. Because anything outside of this 6ft space that is my bed is out-of-bounds. I must stay here, even though being here is killing me. The pains are too bad for me to stay but the pains are even worse if I try to move or leave.
I can’t tell you which bit of me hurts the most, because it is like trying to find that station hidden by all the static.
Writing this has helped a bit. Maybe someone will learn what my pain is like, and the banging on the keyboard as I type stops the throbbing pain I get with every beat of my heart. The pins and needles that surge through my body with the pump of blood are killing me, maybe not physically, but mentally…