In a nutshell, I've been in physical pain on a daily basis for about two months now. My low back (who isn't, I'm told) and now a mean, nasty, hanger-on of a sinus infection that hammers my head and spins the room around - day after day, yadda, yadda, yadda.
This morning I woke up at 1:20 a.m. - with terrible, sure knowledge that I would not be going back to sleep. This is the latest step in my steadily backward retreating awaking time - earlier and earlier, night by night. I expect to meet and pass my going to bed time tonight, which will put me in what? Some kind of altered universe.
This all sucks. Could be worse, I know, but it sucks. And this morning I just lay in bed, nursing my aching head and cranky back, and refused to get up. I declared to my concerned husband, "I'm giving up. I'm not going to get up or try anything else to feel better. I'm going to lie here until I die, and mercifully that will come soon."
After a bit, he asked me if I wanted to know what he thought. Grudgingly I acquiesced. "Well you need to get up, take a shower, get dressed, and do your back exercises. Then we will see."
I shot back several piquantly petulant and pathetic objections, and then I got up and followed instructions.
My husband is wise and frequently knows what to do. He decided that my condition was definitely in need of truck therapy. This entails driving me around in his pick-up truck, until I calm down from whatever is driving me to the point of lunacy. It's very effective.
I you ever need help - truck therapy is a winner. But if you get to the point of completely giving up and waiting for the big one, then here is - step by step - what you can do.
Get in the truck with your husband and your dog, and go directly to McDonald's for a Diet Coke with ice, and drink it right down as you drive along the beach road in the morning mist while the sun is trying to break through the clouds. Turn in at the Big Oak Drive-In in Salter Path, find out that they don't have a pubic bathroom, then ride up and down the beach frantically searching for the closest one. This has something to do with the Diet Coke and taking Prednisone.
Return to the Big Oak, order and consume a large Oyster Burger with slaw, tartar sauce, and catchup and an order of fries. Sit in the truck in the parking lot and people-watch while you eat ALL of this. It's a prescription. (I'm told that the shrimp burger is also therapeutic, but I can't actually vouch for this.)
Head up to Ft. Macon and walk out to the beach in the mist with dog and man. Spend about an hour slowly walking up and down, breathing deeply, while the dog splashes and runs and the sea breeze makes your messy hair worse. Search for olives, augers and other lucky shells, until the sun finally works its way through the clouds to glory, and look up and all around you.
Given the opportunity, give some of your shells to a little kid from Syracuse, N.Y., who is crying. He'll feel better too.
Hug the man and the dog. Drive slowly back home on the beach road, looking at the emerald ocean gleaming in the sun. This works. I promise. You'll feel better and maybe not ready to give up.
Here's the kicker. This morning we saw a seagull lying in the shallow water very near the shore. He was seriously in trouble. He tried to keep his head up and attempted to raise his wings, but was unable. Even the little waves were pushing him around. We watched and tried to decide if we could help in anyway.
As is best, we decided to let nature handle herself and at last walked on down the beach. When we returned, half an hour later, he had died. Now the little waves were gradually carrying him out into the ocean.
This was somewhat sobering to watch. We said we were sure that he had been a good bird, with a good life, and he had died peacefully.
Here's what I'm thinking. I know for a fact that if I lie in bed until I die, no pretty little waves are going to come along and carry me peacefully out to sea. Nope, the visuals on this are not good at all. Sooooo, if for no other reason, I'm going to opt for the truck therapy for the foreseeable future and hope for the best.
This morning I woke up at 1:20 a.m. - with terrible, sure knowledge that I would not be going back to sleep. This is the latest step in my steadily backward retreating awaking time - earlier and earlier, night by night. I expect to meet and pass my going to bed time tonight, which will put me in what? Some kind of altered universe.
This all sucks. Could be worse, I know, but it sucks. And this morning I just lay in bed, nursing my aching head and cranky back, and refused to get up. I declared to my concerned husband, "I'm giving up. I'm not going to get up or try anything else to feel better. I'm going to lie here until I die, and mercifully that will come soon."
After a bit, he asked me if I wanted to know what he thought. Grudgingly I acquiesced. "Well you need to get up, take a shower, get dressed, and do your back exercises. Then we will see."
I shot back several piquantly petulant and pathetic objections, and then I got up and followed instructions.
My husband is wise and frequently knows what to do. He decided that my condition was definitely in need of truck therapy. This entails driving me around in his pick-up truck, until I calm down from whatever is driving me to the point of lunacy. It's very effective.
I you ever need help - truck therapy is a winner. But if you get to the point of completely giving up and waiting for the big one, then here is - step by step - what you can do.
Get in the truck with your husband and your dog, and go directly to McDonald's for a Diet Coke with ice, and drink it right down as you drive along the beach road in the morning mist while the sun is trying to break through the clouds. Turn in at the Big Oak Drive-In in Salter Path, find out that they don't have a pubic bathroom, then ride up and down the beach frantically searching for the closest one. This has something to do with the Diet Coke and taking Prednisone.
Return to the Big Oak, order and consume a large Oyster Burger with slaw, tartar sauce, and catchup and an order of fries. Sit in the truck in the parking lot and people-watch while you eat ALL of this. It's a prescription. (I'm told that the shrimp burger is also therapeutic, but I can't actually vouch for this.)
Head up to Ft. Macon and walk out to the beach in the mist with dog and man. Spend about an hour slowly walking up and down, breathing deeply, while the dog splashes and runs and the sea breeze makes your messy hair worse. Search for olives, augers and other lucky shells, until the sun finally works its way through the clouds to glory, and look up and all around you.
Given the opportunity, give some of your shells to a little kid from Syracuse, N.Y., who is crying. He'll feel better too.
Hug the man and the dog. Drive slowly back home on the beach road, looking at the emerald ocean gleaming in the sun. This works. I promise. You'll feel better and maybe not ready to give up.
Here's the kicker. This morning we saw a seagull lying in the shallow water very near the shore. He was seriously in trouble. He tried to keep his head up and attempted to raise his wings, but was unable. Even the little waves were pushing him around. We watched and tried to decide if we could help in anyway.
As is best, we decided to let nature handle herself and at last walked on down the beach. When we returned, half an hour later, he had died. Now the little waves were gradually carrying him out into the ocean.
This was somewhat sobering to watch. We said we were sure that he had been a good bird, with a good life, and he had died peacefully.
Here's what I'm thinking. I know for a fact that if I lie in bed until I die, no pretty little waves are going to come along and carry me peacefully out to sea. Nope, the visuals on this are not good at all. Sooooo, if for no other reason, I'm going to opt for the truck therapy for the foreseeable future and hope for the best.
