New Day
I have been thinking much in the last several weeks about
how thankful I am that I have come so far from where I was a year ago and had
the worst relapse I’ve had with my CFS since I first fell sick in 2000. In the waning days of September 2012 and the beginning
of October 2012 I knew I was going through a rough patch. I had hoped that was all it was. If I just hunkered down, it would pass. Then one October Saturday morning, I went out
the back door to take Dagaz for a walk.
By the time I made it around to the front of the house I wasn’t sure I’d
be able to make it back around. It felt
like not one, but a whole fleet of two-ton trucks had landed on me and there
was no moving them. I made my way
upstairs to bed. I cried. I prayed this wouldn’t be the relapse from which I
wouldn’t recover, knowing all too well any one of them could be. I told David to go out and get me a lap desk
from for the computer as there was no way I’d be able to sit up for work. The next month and half, I worked from bed in
the dark. Grateful to have a job in
which I could do all I needed to do in those conditions.
I did little else in those months. I stopped going to agility class and
writing. David took over the shopping
and most of the cooking and house hold chores.
I sat on the stairs, throwing food for Dagaz to chase so she could get
her exercise. Walking of any sort was
out of the question for me. Many days, I
had to plunk my butt on the stairs and scoot up or down, as I had no energy for
anything else. Even that left me worn
out. I was grateful for doggie day care,
and I was grateful for the agility jumps my instructor had made for my birthday
a few months before. As I threw food
over the jumps for Dagaz to go after, I told myself it was helping us learn
distance for the day we would be able to get back to class.
It was a hope I had to hold on to.
Those few months were brutal. The fatigue that goes with CFS is not a
fatigue that can be explained. I have
tried, but can only grasp at impotent words.
The fatigue seeps into your cells and travels throughout your body,
leaving nothing unscathed in its wake.
Sound hurts. Light hurts. Motion hurts.
Air hurts. All of those things
join together for a full on assault on your body. It is unrelenting. It takes your voice and your mind, leaving a
shell that looks normal on the outside, but is pockmarked with the ravages of
exploded grenades on the inside.
October drifted into November, which drifted into
December. Instead of the hustle and
bustle of the holidays, there was torpidity, fear and guilt. Guilt is never far from CFS. It sits on my shoulder, maliciously
whispering into my ear all I no longer can do.
Christmas shopping was out of the question; if it couldn’t be found
on-line and shipped, it wasn’t going to be found. David convinced me to go home for the
holidays. Still spending little time out
of bed, a journey of any type wasn’t something I was sure was in me. For him I am grateful. We went.
I watched the activities from a distance, remembering little of the
day.
I came home. I went back to bed, sick on top of the
relapse. Still, I am glad we went. I had made it. There was a light.
I started walking again with Dagaz – five minutes at a time and
then back to bed. We slowly started back
to agility class. I was so ecstatic; you
would have thought I’d won a marathon.
Forget that before and after I could do nothing but sleep and that
during it felt like a two-ton truck was sitting on me. It was only one truck, though. Slowly but surely, the fleet was going away.
By March, the lymph nodes that had been swollen in my neck
since the previous April and had hurt so much that even laying on pillows was
painful had shrunk back again with just the occasional ache. I signed up for an agility trial. It was heaven. The next few weeks after the trial were hell,
but those few moments in the ring were absolute heaven.
The days were hard, but each day I was able to do more
again. A minute here, a minute there,
turned into a few minutes at a time, which turned into a half an hour here, a
half an hour there. I attempted to go
grocery shopping again. Just a few
items. It was too soon and I spent the next
few days in bed again, but I had done it.
Since then, I’ve gotten to the place where some days I can walk with
Dagaz for up to 15 minutes at a time.
Some days even multiple times a day.
I no longer worked from my bed.
The lap desk sits in the corner of the bedroom; I smile when I see the
layers of dust it is collecting from non-use.
Dagaz and I started doing pet therapy in the past year. I started writing again, and even signed up
for an agility trial in December, just two weeks from Christmas with my
family. The thought of doing any one of
those things — let alone all of them — last year at this time seemed more than
impossible. Now it seems wonderous.
Yesterday I went to agility class, did laundry and in
between naps did some Christmas shopping and still was able to go out for a
wonderful date-night dinner with David.
I cried again as I went to bed. These
were not the tears of fear, but of relief.
This relapse was not THE one. It
may still be out there, but not yet. Not
now. Each day is a new day. For that I am grateful.
