So, as I’ve said, Sunday the 5th was my birthday. And we had plans for the Saturday. Plans for lunch, for a nice evening meal, a glass of wine, some cake.
Instead, I woke up with a migraine Saturday morning. So I spent the day in bed throwing up and resting. And resting and throwing up. And sleeping. And did I mention throwing up?
And I cursed my head. My body. For once again letting me down. For ruining my plans. Something it does all.The.Time.
I mentioned this to my mother and she, correctly and sagely, pointed out I should get over it. It’s the body I have.
So I am trying to remember that. That it’s the body I have and the world isn’t going to end if all of our boxes aren’t unpacked yet. Or if Adam’s toys aren’t picked up.
I’m finding it very hard, though.
To accept that there are days when, truly, all I can do is sit and rest. Unfortunately, sometimes those are days that Adam is home. And we do nothing but play quietly, colouring and watching TV. And I try to at least take him for a brief walk or have a romp in the back garden. But sometimes even that doesn’t happen.
I know soon he’ll be in school full time and it won’t be a problem any more. For one thing, if he goes where we want him to, it’s a 1.5 mile walk one way to get there! For another, of course they have recess or whatever they call it in the UK.
But I still wonder what he’ll remember. Will he just remember that Mummy loved him always? Or will he remember being bored out of his mind stuck inside because Mummy Hurts?
I’m also really fed up with not being able to do what I want when I want. To run out of spoons some days as soon as I get out of bed.
And it happened again today. I woke up at 5:10am with a headache that felt like it was heading into migraine territory. So I got up and took some Migraleave. And I never puked but I was in bed all day with pain. And it was a beautiful sunny day. And I missed it. Again.
Simon and Adam went to the park. And for a coffee. And to get some shopping done.
And I lay in bed all day. In pain. Sleeping. Missing it.
And I don’t accept it. I don’t know how to accept it. I also can’t change it.
I like to think I live my life not worrying about things I can’t change. Except I can’t change this and I worry about it. It’s a huge disconnect in the way I want to be, to live.
It has taken me over a week to write this post and I’m still not sure what I am trying to say. But I think it’s time to hit publish and get it out there.
I usually like to end on a high note.
I have no high note on this issue.