HEALTH
My Days Are a Delicate Dance of Routine Through Pain
Dancing through days with chronic pain
Some days I move through my routine like a delicate dance, pleasantly aware of my movements in time and in rhythm with the universe.
I fumble through making the coffee with heavy, sleepy limbs, the pain taking root in my left arm. I try to keep my neck straight. The creamer, then the sugar. Sop up the mess with last night’s counter rag.
Here in the south, it’s a wash-rag, a wash-cloth, or simply, a rag. This does not denote quality, but ours are rather worse-for-wear.
Back to me — delicate in my heavy sleep. Moving through the pain and into my routine of life.
Routine. Somehow it is grounding in such difficult and stressful circumstances. My coffee, my computer, getting dressed for the day and swooping up my massive hair into some form of a bun or braid — settling in for a day of work-while-sitting.
I start with a little reading of notifications over coffee. Sometimes the news is already on — before I even climb out of bed. I like to know what’s going on in the world even if most days I am not much a part of it.
Oh, that’s not whining — it’s just real. There’s a sober beauty about truth when you let it dance with you, walk with you, sit in the same spot as you, propped up on 4 pillows and typing out your day. Truth is a good companion — only argumentative when you ignore them. (I imagine truth is non-binary, don’t you?)
- Morning — coffee, notifications, plan out my day (The Monk Manual helps me with this.)
- Self-promo linking, checking on my publications — adding people, approving posts, checking social media. If I have LOTS of client work, I skip this all — and come back to it very late at night.
- Write one article (usually for a client)
- Lunch with my daughter
- Finish morning article and if my typing fingers let me, begin another.
- About 3 is bathtime with Epsom salts — and I usually watch some Investigation Discovery show or something to let my brain chill out with “story” and characters and who-dunnit. I find this gives me a good mental break in the middle of the day.
- Sometimes I write a whole poem while my bathwater runs.
- After bath I have an hour or so before I begin dinner so I use that working on client articles or working on articles for my Medium account or for my Fiddleheads & Floss Blog
- Cook dinner — from scratch, usually, although the past year or so I have to ask for a lot of help cutting things, washing things, stirring things. I don’t get things out of the oven anymore if I can avoid it. There are lots of helpers around (my son, my partner, and my daughter — none of whom are aware that they are my helpers) so I grab someone if I need them. I love cooking — the dance of life is amplified when I am in the kitchen. Moving around the spaces like I could be there with my eyes closed, reach out my hands and find anything I needed there without any sight.
- After dinner and television, I head back to my room, my sitting zone, and finish any loose ends of work for the day. Sometimes I hurt too much to do anything so I prop myself up on the pillows and find some tv to watch. If my pain level is low I work on some crochet or other craft — but keep it brief.
- During the nighttime hours, I get more done than all the rest of the day. Sometimes, energy flowing through me as everyone else sleeps. Other times only my mind is awake so I watch a movie or something. I wrote an entire novel once between midnight and 3 in the morning — a little each night while everyone slept. These night hours are strangely liberating for me — I am not expected to be moving all about. Sitting quietly and working is totally reasonable. The slow part of the dance that I am really good at.
I have made peace with the juxtaposition of the pacing of my internal dance, racing, and swirling, with the slow outer pace dictated by the chronic pain in my body. I move through my routine with the most grace I can muster. I celebrate accomplishments no matter how small. I anchor my feet in the purpose of productivity while balancing my body’s need for self-care.
I try not to complain.
The world is spinning on its axis and me on mine. For most days — this is ok. For most days I feel a part of it, even from my quiet perch in front of the laptop. I can still reach people. Talk to people. Encourage others and inspire. I can write poetry that moves people. I am talented.
And on some internal level, I can still dance.
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Christina M. Ward is a well-living blogger, a poet (her first collection is organic), and a nature-loving Carolina girl who enjoys finding the lessons in life (especially in nature). You can follow her on social media or subscribe to her Author Newsletter.
