Even in the night I was thinking of the cyclone hitting India. Between my screams, I'd have a vision of a young man standing on the edge of the spiral, the whorl, knowing that the edge of a spiral, a whorl is a cutting thing. I kept half-dreaming him saying a cold and swift "good-bye" to what must have been a mother, nodding to an old man, who had nodded first to him, which my mind-state knew was his calling to sacrifice.
He dove into the cyclone, and as I looked down the line of the cliff, the billowing chaotic universal twist not yet touching holy land, I saw young people, serene-faced, push off powerfully, smoothly, launching bodies into the eddy.
I will hate my mind when the pictures roll in, the bodies floating, the water-borne disease predictions, and, surely, the misshapen face of of what must have been a mother, the stoic cold face of an old man in charge of pointless sacrifice.
I was angry at Fred yesterday, which meant I needed to eat. Fred had done nothing but make sure, at intervals whose meaning meant something only to him (As long as he could stand? Whenever he remembered? If i made a moan? I know that once he came in when he heard me laughing.), that I was still alive, and had taken my meds. I went to sleep Tuesday evening with a high fever, the chief odd symptom of which was exhaustion, total exhaustion. I slept and listened to music from Tuesday evening to mid-day Friday. No food, enough water to take those accursed meds, the spotlight of Fred's face in mine, and that stupid question: "Are you all right?"
So I tried to be normal yesterday, my normal and a little of what might be your normal. I cleaned a bit, chatted cheerfully, answered emails, tried, and tried, and tried.
The exhaustion returned, but not the high fever. I settled in for a normal night of sleep-some, read-some, listen-to-music-some.
And the dystonia, the spasms, the wrenching screaming twists and deformations hit within the hour. I promptly informed God that "no, I can't do this," and loaded up on antispasmodics, told myself the usual lullaby: "You will stop jerking in fifteen to twenty minutes, tops. Whatcha wanna do until then?"
I walked using my forearm crutches, in a back and forth pattern, not wanting to fall but wanting to force my legs into normal shapes. If I don't, it's grotesque, even for me, to watch, and hell, only for me, to feel. When my legs decided they weren't going to move any more, and this after about 3 minutes, I grabbed a cat. I groomed the hell out of that cat, and since it happened to be Dobby, well, that was swell by him. Why I did not suddenly leap from the bed every night to groom him with ferocity was the mystery between his ears.
The pain increased as I kept denying muscles, tendons, various sheaths and demon parts the right to transmogrify into whatever rhomboid they felt like. It was blitzkrieg time.
Fifteen to twenty minutes, tops.
Try all night long. I gave in to the screaming. I forgave myself the weakness.
I have residual pain in my legs, a new thing to add to their usual pain. I can only describe it as a leftover electrical burn. And that is why I try not to put too many words -- ha -- to the work of describing CRPS pain.
It makes you sound like a maniac.
© 2013 L. Ryan