A couple of days ago, on the day after the official end of busy season, I was speaking to someone at work and mentioned that I’d considered calling 911 when I woke up that morning, in jest, of course. You may recall my whining about needing air in my tires or something, yes? And when the individual questioned me about whether or not I was in charge of my own destiny, I became annoyed.
To some extent, I truly believe that I am. That I’ve always been allowed to make choices, and that at times, fear, practicality, and others’ feelings have kept me from making the best decisions for myself. You know, bills, children, and a husband. A mortgage.
Minor details, of course.
If I’m to consider that individual’s words and take them entirely to heart, then that means my aching bones (from crawling on the floor with my rear end in the air doing files) are something I brought on myself. Do I get credit for exercising to ensure that I stay as flexible as possible as I age? Who in their right mind would wish that kind of pain on themselves?
Oh, I get it. I’m supposed to ignore the agony, smile, and move forward. I can certainly play that game. In fact, in my life, I’d say that I’ve done it so much that I may be considered a pro. Giving birth three times counts for something, doesn’t it? Having an arm completely disconnected from a shoulder socket at the age of eight. Hepatitis, bronchitis, mononucleosis, endometriosis. Physical abuse. Putting up with so much pain and crap and not acknowledging any of it because I figured everyone dealt with it. Honestly. They do, don’t they?
In the couple of days I’ve had to think of his comments, a few interesting things have happened. Last night, I woke up and realized that yet again, the MoH wasn’t in bed. He was, in fact, in the bathroom miserably engaged in the kind of illness you wouldn’t want your dog to have to deal with. Clearly, he’d eaten something not intended for human consumption. And at one point, he almost blacked out after breaking into a drenching sweat.
I, on the other hand, was in my own little world, my throat feeling like it was the size of the Holland Tunnel, and joints that ached whether I moved them or not, trying to pinch my eyeballs shut downstairs on the sofa, fighting with the Doggo for space. Wishing there was a bush with my name on it that I could crawl under.
The two of us were quite pathetic as we moaned our goodbyes to the RTR who was off to school this morning.
So I guess to one person’s way of thinking, we brought this on ourselves. We wished ourselves ill and since we’re quite different, the MoH and I are experiencing very different problems. Sure. That makes sense. Except for one thing.
The guy is NEVER sick. Ever. To be honest, he’s been sick twice in the nearly 25 years that I’ve known him. I’d say he’s not inclined to wish this sort of thing upon himself — especially when I consider that he’s had 20 years of busy seasons and has never had to deal with anything like this.
I have a better way to look at this debacle. I say that the will to push one’s self during times of great stress is remarkable. That we are able to do what needs to be done regardless of how we feel in the process. But that at the first moment of calm, there’s a release, and in some strange way, our bodies react to what has been suppressed, forcing us to lie down and rest — something we couldn’t imagine before. It must be necessary.
It’s pretty scary.
But I also think that it’s more frightening that some feel all of our thoughts, if not 100% positive in nature, are the cause of all our ills.
I’ll think about this more. In the meantime, I’m tired of forcing myself to sit up, engaging my brain, when all my body wants to do is sleep.
But I do hope you’re well, and looking forward to a remarkable weekend.
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