Walk a Mile in My Shoes:
A Day In The Life
I wake up at 4 am. My head is pounding and I barely make it out of bed before the
retching begins. It’s the only morning my husband, Alan, has to sleep so I had planned to
be extra quiet. But as I take a halting step toward the stairs my back spasms and I cry out
at the sudden red-hot pain. Alan stirs, mumbles and resettles while I freeze like a doe in
headlights.
I creep downstairs and rummage through the medicine cabinet. With these headaches it’s
hard to think straight, and sometimes I can’t remember which meds to take in what order.
I find the expensive headache pill, carefully swallow it with a sip of water and two
seconds later it comes back up in a fit of retching. I fall to my knees with the strength of
the spasms, cracking my elbow against the countertop as I fall. On my hands and knees
on the kitchen floor I retch so hard that tears pour from my eyes, my nose runs, small
gobs of saliva litter the floor.
[It’s better than it was last year before the surgery. I had a Nissan fundoplication a year
ago. Simply put the surgeon wrapped my stomach around the lower end of my esophagus
and sewed it in place, creating a new valve to stop the backflow from my stomach. The
valve is so tight I can’t vomit. Or burp. Or drink more than a sip of fluid at a time. Or eat
any foods that aren’t pureed. Even sips of water cause severe spasms that send shooting
pains up through my chest and into my right jaw and ear.]
From all fours I make a second attempt at taking the pill, and this time I manage to get it
down. My arms and legs are trembling so hard that I rest there for a few minutes before
hoisting myself back to my feet.
The cats are at the door, yowling in their most pitiful voices for my attention. I let them
in and they purr and rub against my legs. Through the back-door window I can see the
sun and mist moving across the valley. I’ve never been happier. I feed the cats, then
summon the courage to take my daily medications: One for arthritis, three for digestive
system problems, one for hormones, one for depression. A pain pill. A muscle relaxer.
After thirty minutes the meds kick in and I feel a violent wave of nausea. A thin line of
sweat breaks out on my upper lip and I see black spots before my eyes. I stumble to the
recliner and rest for five minutes, calm myself, get up and start again. I choke down a
piece of dry toast and keep going.
Outside I fill the bird feeders, eyeball the herb garden, look out over the valley. The air is
fresh and smells of flowering hedge. What a gorgeous day! I stretch my arms wide to give
Mother Nature a big hug. A sudden wave of nausea and cramps in the bowel and I
scramble for the house.
Later I pack up a book for mailing. It’s going to a woman I sort of know who’s staying in
the psych ward for a while. Then I spend the rest of the morning writing for my job with
the newspaper, a weekly column in the Sunday paper. I have to sit on one butt cheek to
keep the pressure off my spine. I shift from side to side. After twenty minutes my right
leg is full of the feeling of pins and needles. The toes on my right foot are curled under.
Painful spasms move up and down my back like a cattle prod being applied. My coccyx
bone throbs. I rise and make coffee. Decaf. I’m not allowed the real thing anymore.
The next few hours are broken up in the same way: Work a while, move around till the
spasms relent, work a while, and so on. A neighbor stops by on his way home to offer any
help to me that he can. He’s 78, has had surgery for cancer three times, and a month ago
he had a quad bypass. I promise to make him some sourdough basil and tomato bread.
After he leaves I try to decide whether to eat lunch or not. My stomach growls and I feel
faint with hunger, but I know if I eat there’ll be pain to contend with for at least an hour
afterward. And that’s if I’m careful.
A girlfriend calls and wants me to join her for a Ladies Night Out. She explains excitedly
that we’ll go out for a huge Oriental dinner, then go dancing and drinking till dawn. I
don’t know what to say. This woman knows I’m sick. I tell her I’ve already made plans
then change the subject.
When we hang up I decide I should make a swipe at housecleaning. Instead I wander out
onto the deck and sit in a chair that allows me a view of the valley. The tears come, as
they always do when I’m not keeping busy. I search myself for signs of self pity and find
myself clean. It’s just that I’m so tired, and the battles are so huge. I feel alone. I am
alone. Where the rubber meets the road, inside, we all face life alone.
I cry for a while, then begin my spiritual exercises to bring me back to balance. Deep
breathing, then I build an attitude of gratitude by naming every single thing I’m thankful
for today, starting with toothpaste. I don’t get far down the list before my spirits lift. It’s
not that bad.
I rise, and during the process my back gives out and I crash down onto the deck on my
side, banging my cheekbone against the rail. I’ll have a black eye tomorrow. The cats
scatter in alarm. I have to summon anger to fight the despair I feel, but I don’t deserve
this malady and I use my anger to fuel my struggle to my feet. My ribs feel bruised and
my right side looks like I took a long clumsy slide into second base.
The phone rings and it’s a friend telling me about a woman in town who has
fibro-myalgia and is terribly depressed. I ask about another woman whose granddaughter
has manic-depressive illness (I prefer that description to bipolar disorder). When I hang
up I start a loaf of rosemary-wheat bread for the woman with fibro-myalgia. I’ll run it by
just before dinnertime. I don’t really know this woman but we know each other by sight.
When the bread is started I call the grandmother of the manic-depressive. She really
needs somebody to talk to, so we chat for a while. I give her some contacts in the
mental-health world that can help her with this situation. I promise to make her a round
of dill bread and we hang up.
The phone rings immediately and it’s my editor asking if I can get my column in two
days early. Sure, I say. While we talk my stomach begins to cramp and heave. I end the
conversation quickly and lean weakly against the kitchen sink. I retch so violently that I
tear muscle tissue. Tomorrow I’ll be sore. I drink two sips of orange juice to raise my
blood sugar, but not enough to spark gastric distress. I look at the clock. It’s about that
time. Every day in the late afternoon I have esophageal spasms. They sound like loud
hiccups and feel like volcanoes trying to erupt. The pressure is tremendous.
I move around in the kitchen. What delicious delicacy shall I have for dinner? Mashed
potatoes with oleo? Or maybe a little white rice? And for a super special treat I’ll have a
couple of tablespoons of applesauce! I sing along with Pavoratti’s CD, complete with
arm gestures. Never has he had such an excellent accompanying vocalist!! I laugh at
myself. The cats look at me sleepy-eyed.
I decide to make something yummy for my husband’s dinner. He works in a nearby town
and doesn’t commute every night, so I like to treat each homecoming as a special
occasion. I start his dinner, and when he comes home we share drinks on the deck. He
has a beer, I have two tablespoons of Merlot. I eat mashed potatoes and water for dinner.
Halfway through the pain strikes in my chest and jaw, and I have to stagger up to bed.
Lying down relieves the chest and jaw pain, the back pain, the spasms. Too bad I can’t lie
down all day, I think. Then quickly I correct myself. That’s the last thing I want! Time
enough for those limitations later on when my back condition progresses to another level.
My husband comes up and sits on the side of the bed so we can talk. I can see the
weariness in the set of his shoulders, the sadness in his eyes. This is not the life we’d
planned. We cling to each other and try not to cry. We promise to make love this
weekend. He pats me till I fall asleep. I wake at 4 am, retching.
White Room
I could crawl inside this skin
To make a home for years to come.
I could make my body splinter thin
To cast out ills and make amends.
Books reveal the life I’m missing.
All my fear has made me bend.
Now just crumpled in the dimness,
This competition I can’t win.
Old bones, all alone.
Holding self to keep up shape.
Add a log to fire sense
And feed the fever drained of grace.
Hours winked away with worry.
All the seconds holding sand.
Time runs faster than my memories
Cupped in shaking, childish hands.
You, there, all alone
Pray to God to mimic faith.
Confusion eats her fill of fury.
All the rest, in Death, does wait.
-- Connie R. Henry
A Country Rag