I feel like a porcupine today with all its sticky outie quills conducting an enormous quantity of electrical shocks to my system. I must be on my last proverbial nerve. Each little nuisance that I’m rubbing up against is jabbing me into a state of hypersensitivity.
In my mother’s later years, when she was legally blind, she settled into telling us stories of her youth in the 1920s. When her first grandchild got his driver’s license, she shared how at eleven years old, she would drive her father, a pharmacist, to work in downtown San Antonio in their family Model T. Driver’s licenses were not required till 1936 in Texas. The only test for permission to drive was the answer to the question, “can you drive?”
I’m a member of an encouraging FB group, “View from My Window,” originated to uplift us worldwide, to know that we aren’t alone during this strenuous pandemic time of isolation.
I was listening to one of my gardening podcasts while sewing, which I’m apt to do. The topic of the week was appropriate for this time of year when gardeners are yearning to dig their hands in that sweet, tangy winter composted dirt, ready to plant seeds ordered from the beautifully illustrated mail-in catalogues.
I was startled this morning by the hectic bird activity in my backyard when gazing out of my study window as I sipped my jasmine tea. Watching their intricate lives with all their glorious colors and personalities flitting in and out of the bare brittle winter branches was quite a show! When I say “startled,” I don’t mean frightened, but I mean “stopped in my tracks!”
With chronic disease, the one aflicted begins in the dark, fumbling through protracted bouts of insomnia, depression, and pain until finally a lab comes back or an endless infection is abated before a diagnosis is pronounced. Only after a faltering diagnosis does a vague clarity or validation dawn.