In Defiant Burgundy

Every year I fart around with putting a holiday design on this blog, and every year I give up and grumble my way back to the status quo. But look! Burgundy! Snowflakes! It lives!

I tried several palettes of washed-out hipster hues, but too many of them could have doubled for spring shades under a different label. In the end I chose winter-rich burgundy because it helps me cope with having a summer Christmas this year. Or is nose-thumbed denial the opposite of coping? I forget.

If I had written this blog post about 24 hours ago, I would've reluctantly discussed the CT scan results, which we got on Saturday. I don't know if I would've just left it at "nothing life threatening, so I've no right to complain!" (cheerful Angela Lansbury-ish face) or if I would have laid bare the shock of disc bulges and stenosis and "this is how it is now" and "but I don't recommend surgery because really it's a 50-50 chance" and "what happens in a few weeks when the Naproxen runs out?" and "so I may never sit comfortably again?"

But now - an incredible 72 hours later - I'm too cautiously optimistic to take that approach.

Last night I felt better. The best in weeks. I was able to semi-lie on the sofa with Mike to watch TV, which I will tell you is far nicer than lying on the end of the bed, watching through the door to the living room, yelling out any comments.

I was also up for a walk all around downtown, just the kind of exercise I need now that 1. I have to finally get this weight off, and 2. I can't do all the exercise one would normally seek out for such a goal. In fact, Mike pooped out before I did.

And then today I sat for an hour to play with the site and muck with genealogy. Far nicer than jabbing at the iPad while lying flat in bed.

Compared to Sunday, when I was in restless recovery all day from some short car rides on Saturday, this is Hallelujah Territory.

Of course, compared to a wheelchair or casket, I haven't had a bad day yet.

Still, all of this ambulation and reduced numbness is bracketed by umpteen hours of bed rest every day and absurdly gentle housework. (We have the good ole rent inspection on Thursday, so for the past week I've been all, "Today I will clean a bathroom mirror! Tomorrow, the other one!" Me and the snails, I tell ya.)

Maybe I shouldn't get too hopeful, and I well know I shouldn't push it, either. Optimistic people online use phrases like "such and such had me feeling better in as little as six months!" (For those who ever improve.)

I'll be looking into physiotherapy soon. I'm unspeakably grateful that my visa hasn't processed in time for me to accept a teaching position for January. I miss disposable income, but that would've been a mess.

I'm even more grateful to have Mike. Obviously.

Before the diagnosis, we felt like everything was going our way. But even now, after, I can't imagine a time in our lives when we've been better prepared for medical issues, lifestyle changes, and compromises to our dreams. I'm half-heartbroken, but hope is still free. May as well grab all I can carry.

Now we wait and see.

(In defiant burgundy.)

03 December 2013 |

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