Those of us with Lyme know all too well how utterly draining it is to have to socialize when we’d really rather be in bed. Everyone has these kinds of days, but the elements of the spriochetes, Lyme rage, and inestimable exhaustion combined with the expectations for holiday cheer can come of no good. To have my worst week of the month fall when the demands on my time, patience, and limited social niceties were greatest seems like some cosmic joke and I fail to see the humor. (Affecting the stiff upper lip: “We are not amused.” Has anyone seen my tiara?)
I awoke this morning, as I have most days this week, wondering which of yesterday’s events made a strong enough impression that I actually remember them in sufficient detail to pass them on here, and hoping what I do recall might possibly be worth any stray readers’ time.
What I remember most about yesterday was the daunting effort it took to control that mean cutting voice in my head uttering unwarranted obscenities at my wife because she wanted to spend the day with family and I had to choose between being alone at home or feeling alone in a house full of people who love me.
The obscenities went unuttered. I showered and went with her to the family, with the understanding that I was going to take the car and go home when it was naptime and she was to hitch a ride with someone else. Fair enough. As long as I said as little as possible, we should all be safe.
The previous evening, Christmas being an important holiday for the family, my wife and I were at her parents’ house and I had long since needed to go home. She had said something hurtful to me, more thoughtless than anything, in front of her parents. The voice in my head exploded with rage, the kind that makes your palms sweat and limbs shake, the rush of cortisol and adrenaline. I had to look at the ground and remind myself of what I’d realized a few months ago: I may not react over nothing but I overreact over most things during rage week. I kept my voice low and even (the tone that makes the hair on my wife’s arms rise up), said something to end the conversation and walked from the room to gain some distance and perspective. Her parents have yet to experience the joys and wonders of rage week.
And yesterday, at about noon, I noticed people were starting to talk about food. I’d been stationary for too long and needed to get up, plus I felt that burst of energy I sometimes get about an hour before I hit the wall. So I went into the kitchen and was fetching leftovers out of the fridge when a family friend, who hadn’t seen me in months but had been hearing about my worsening physical condition from the family, remarked how surprised he was to see me so active.
My immediate reaction was to squirt him in the face with the mayo I clutched in my right hand. He didn’t mean to insinuate that the reports had been blown out of proportion, or that I was faking an illness. I think he was genuinely surprised, but he didn’t notice that my feet were firmly planted in one spot, most of my weight on my right leg to give my sore left hip a break. Nor that I wasn’t lifting anything heaver than the condiment cum weapon. He certainly wasn’t around an hour later when all my energy dissipated, and I could hardly muster the attention to watch tv, blinking only when my eyes got too dry to remain open any longer. Half vegetative, probably, I would have looked from the outside. Almost time to be turned, lest I develop bedsores.
Instead of giving in to temptation to scream at him and everyone else (I know for no real reason at all), I shrugged when he asked about the pain (I’m going to be in pain whether I’m sitting or standing so it doesn’t matter; it’s good for me to get up and move) and then launched into an explanation about getting close to hitting my wall and wrapping things up before I headed home for a nap. Then I wondered why I was explaining myself to him. To anyone.
The anger evaporated on the drive home, helped in part I’m sure to my blasting the radio so loudly that the side mirrors vibrated. Some music was made for that. Not all. And not in residential neighborhoods. The open road is fair game, though. When I got home, I was able to take a nap, to actually sleep for a change. And I slept well last night, too, to awaken this morning feeling more refreshed and comfortable than I have in weeks.
Of course, I have no social obligations whatsoever today. Apparently the cosmic joke wasn’t a one-liner. (Found the tiara. Still not amused.)
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