She was a stubborn child, up for a fight with whomever got in her way. Her pout was de rigueur. Her foot stamp was background noise to her life. Of course, she had freckles, and strawberry blonde pigtails. You would be able to recognize her in any family photo. The one with arms crossed, and a deep scowl. But in a heartbeat she could be all sweetness and light, wrapping anyone around her finger.
Yep, she was a piece of work. She now has possessed my body, trying to take over my mind. Even as I write she is having a tantrum in my right butt cheek. It’s hoppin, and jiggling – and if I weren’t burdened with a hind end like an anchor – I bet if I was on the floor, I would be motoring around on the kitchen floor in a circle.
I take some meds, and my free will scolds her to stop. And my rear end begins a samba on the right and a waltz on the left. Today the tremor is not the norm, but this punch-punch, muscle spasm, punch. If it wasn’t my butt, I’d be tempted to look in a mirror, kind of fascinated by the crazy activity, which is visible. In a way, it’s rather funny. But mostly it makes me angry and pissed off, this buttocks dancing.
In a little while my shoulder will take a punch, while trying to be calm with the tremors. Then BANG! The dance moves down to my calves and now the right takes on a ballet foot pose, the other one just wants to curl her toes like a fist.
There are less visible, meaner games she plays with my head. I try to get the energy to go out on the porch and sit in the sun. But my feet choose not to move. My FW (Free Will) says ‘get dressed, grab a jacket and lets go outside’. But my imp doesn’t help me get my team of body and nerve parts out of the bed. “OK, that’s it!! I am going outside!!” Wanna bet? Zzzzzzz.
A year ago I should have been suspicious when my son, ever patient, taught me how to get into his taller than my legs could reach front seat. “Mom! C’mon. This is silly. Watch me.” And he’d get in, get out, in and out. “Just hop and slide into the seat.”
My FW said “hop, c’mon. A momentary, safe hop into the air.” Hop, I said. Nothing. Jump then. Nope. I got in by laying my rear against the side of the seat and pushing with my cane for leverage to get one leg in and then the other. I still cannot hop, nor go from tip toe to heal toe. These feet aren’t made for hopping, and that’s what they can do…
I need to shower, day 1. I can get there turn on the water, then put on the same clothes, turn off the water and walk out. This would go on indefinitely except for my regular appts, where -although exhausting – with my teeth gritted, I follow through. Still pondering, on day 8 here.
I know you cannot understand why a grown woman doesn’t keep herself up. Doesn’t go out of the house. Avoids crowds or ‘busy’ activities. I do not understand either.
(My left calf is doing a undulating belly roll.)
What I do know is that every day is like being in an elevator, with her trying to shut the doors and not let me out, and with all my strength of mind, body & soul, I push, push, push to keep the doors open. Because I know if she wins, I have lost. And I cannot let that happen just yet.
However impaired my life is, it’s what I have.
Great now my temple is twitching. Sigh.
Papa, are you there? It’s me, Vicki