It seemed like a good idea at the time.
A few months ago, I thought about all the facets of my life that I had been neglecting because special needs parenting always takes precedence. Bathed in the glow of virtue, I set up a slew of appointments and created a checklist of personal goals. Then I hit up some friends to make plans.
I don’t know about all this. Self care as we get older seems to be more about humiliating violations in the name of prevention and care. So far, I’ve had a root canal, hideously invasive glaucoma testing, and I have a mammogram and PAP smear to look forward to. I passed much of this week hopped up on pain meds and not making much sense. Every time someone texted to ask how I was, I replied, “Blam Blam pain.” When my husband tried to chat with me while I washed dishes, I said to him with deceptive calm, “I am extremely ragey right now, and don’t really have good control of my behavior, so you should remember that you are the only person I can target in this house.” He walked away, smart man. He didn’t offer to wash the dishes, though, appalling excuse for a human being.
After a while, I accepted that my best path for getting through the week was just to lie low and not reply to too many messages. So if you didn’t hear from me, that would be why. You will have to take on faith that it was a good thing.
I don’t really have too much to say this week. If you’re gonna complain about it, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe I’ll recommend you to my root canal guy.
It was really nice to get together with friends, though. They’re still smiling and have all their limbs intact, I promise.
I want to thank A for being unusually cooperative and calm this week, and G for helping out with chores. And my gym trainer K, who designed workouts that wouldn’t aggravate my face. She’ll come up with something for mammo week; I have faith in her abilities, and in our twisted connection to each other’s moods. My biceps and hamstrings are sore, but I’m not fool enough to take her on.
Till next week, sweet friends.