Traversing on Tuesday, Part One

Tuesday afternoon, 5/16/23. 

At the end of my appointment with Michele, I feel encouraged. I feel hope. I had entered the room in much despair. The recent dizziness and nausea on top of the insomnia and nerve damage, would lead anyone into despair...or, at the very least, into the temptation of despair. Something I regularly transverse [traverse].

(Interesting word, "transverse." To verse across? I think of conversation...to verse with. And poems or music...which have verses. What does it mean to verse? Ahh, just looked up the etymology of transverse: from trans "across" + vertere "to turn."  However, "transverse" means to lie across. So traverse is the proper word. But still "transverse" can apply too; I lie down often. And the word "traverse" comes from "transverse." 

Interesting because to traverse despair involves a turn...to turn into or away from. I think of getting off the "wheel of suffering" while in the midst of the suffering. Sometimes I find a path off. And sometimes it is just too fucking hard, and I have no option but to ride it out. Yet, riding it out can also be one way off the wheel of suffering...to roll with the wheel, hanging on for what seems to be life itself, until the wheel stops, at least temporarily. Life is a "long and winding (versing) road" to quote one of the Beatles. Sounds like it'd be a George Harrison line.)

As I approach Edward the Explorer who is awaiting me in the parking lot where Michele's office is, I ask my Self, What do I do now? How am I feeling? Do I walk somewhere? I think I feel strong enough to go for a walk? 

(I make no commitments these days outside of self-care, except for medical appointments which, of course, are a part of my self-care. I do not know from day to day how my health will be on any given day or hour. I thought earlier today as I am writing this piece (Friday, 5/19) that I literally live one day at a time.)

I decide to take the back way to Pilot Mountain, to the Knob. If nothing else, the drive should be pleasant. And it is; I am not disappointed. 

I park in one of the handicap spots in the summit parking lot. I hang my placard on the rearview mirror. It's a new handicap placard, good through April 2028. It's my second placard; my first one was good May 2018 through May 2023. So it's still good too, for another coupleish weeks. But I can only drive one car at a time. 

I get out my trekking poles and make my way to the bathroom. I have a short, pleasant exchange with a man sitting on a bench. 

Back at Edward, I pull out my hiking shoes and my cap. I don my cap, walk over to a short brick wall, sit down, unstrap my sandals, lace on my hiking shoes, check the grass behind me for bees or other little critters, and lay back on the grass to help relieve some of my lower back pain. I breathe in and out deeply, taking in the sky view. It's a beautiful day and probably 10 degrees cooler up here than below. 

I then make my way back to Edward, strap on my back brace and my hiking hip pack. I unplug my phone from the car charger, set it to airplane mode, tap on the app to measure how far I trek, and zip the phone into my hip pack. I click lock twice on Eward's fob. Edward beeps indicating he is locked and alarmed. I hide the key in its hiding place inside Edward and shut the door. Edward has a keypad to unlock him; one of Edward's many features that I enjoy. 

As I walk up the sidewalk, I am deeply refreshed by the cool breezes. My back brace and wrist braces can get quite toasty in the warm/hot weather. The breezes feel so delightful. My olfactories delight in the aromas of earth and plants. I recall the days for some 15+ years when I couldn't smell. In this moment, I do not take for granted that sense.

I make it up the short walk of stairs and rocks to Little Pinnacle summit where one gets a clear, closeup view of Pilot Knob and any raptors circling the Knob. I look down below at Jomeokee Trail which winds its way to Pilot Knob and encircles the base of the Knob. Jomeokee means "great guide," 

Boy, I'd sure like to be able to hike that trail again. I wonder how many years it's been?

I carefully make my way down Little Pinnacle back to the sidewalk. I turn right and walk a short distance. I stop at the trailhead for Jomeokee and look at it, pondering. 

It's a lot of stairs, And there's that one spot, the little boulder without steps. Hmmm....  Well, I can always start down and turn around if I feel it's too much.

So, off I go.

At the section where there are a lot of stairs I think about rain and how it wets the stairs and that I would not attempt this if the stairs were wet. 

Along comes a hiker going the same direction as I. A young man, probably in his late 20s or early 30s. We strike up a pleasant conversation and he walks beside me down all the stairs. I am very slow. That he would take the time to walk with me...well...it makes me feel good. In our conversation, I pick up his outlook on life. It's positive. Hopeful. But not Pollyanna, not in an unrealistic way. He kind of reminds me of my own two adult children. 

We reach the bottom of the stairs and exchange farewells. I thank him for accompanying me down the stone stairs.

Partial view from Little Pinnacle summit

Raptor Plaque on Little Pinnacle

View of Pilot Knob from Little Pinnacle

Stairs at the trailhead of Jomeokee Trail

If I were to write an update, of sorts...

If I were to write an update, of sorts, about where I now function/exist/await regarding my health, what would I share? 

Life is really hard.

I have plateaued. 

Is this where I will stay? 

Will there be more movement?

There is always movement, either toward improvement or toward death.

The movement-toward-death is inevitable for all living creatures, unless there is a Christian Rapture or Hope at which time humans who are alive at the event will be given new bodies and will meet the Lord in the air. [I capitalize "rapture" and "hope" to delineate the event from the typical usage of those words.]

(My meandering thoughts at this moment, are they a type of avoidance as I endeavor to put into words my current, complex, often-overwhelming health status?)

Perhaps it'd be easier for me (but not necessarily any readers) to approximate a number on a scale. The premise for my scale is "Week 12" of my previous epidural cycle. Because I haven't received an epidural since 4/14/22, I live in a continuous Week 12 now. 

I used to receive epidurals every 12 weeks. With every cycle the final week was always the worst. It got so bad over the years that it is hard to describe the physical, mental, and emotional symptoms. Indescribable physical weakness, brain mud, despair. Laced within those are the overwhelming fatigue (physical, mental, emotional and neurological) and a widespread low-level pain through all my limbs, extremities, and back. Not to mention dizziness, mini-migraines, tummy-yuck, and whatever-else.

So, on a scale of 0 to 12, with 12 being the worst, I hover these days (mostly) around an 8 or 9 and maybe an occasional 7 or 10.  Which is far from "well" but, considering the circumstances, is notable. One of those circumstances is chronic insomnia for a year, most weeks getting around 20 to 25 hours of sleep. That is not calculated with a device, but rather my own record-keeping. So I may be getting a few hours more, but not many and not deep sleep. That I can function as well as I do, is also notable. 

So in comparing (as well as I can; some objective, some subjective) with my previous Week 12s:

My symptoms are a bit different; it's like they are more concrete and less diffuse.

I have described my current pain as being harder, starker than previously...like a 'hard' leafless tree in winter instead of a 'soft' leafy tree in summer. It's not necessarily "worse" or "better," but different. 

The weakness through my limbs is not as bad; I can now (very slowly) lift my right arm using my bicep, whereas it would otherwise be non-liftable. It takes extra effort to lift it, and I can't move it quickly. I can't move any of my body quickly; shooting pain and lameness will let me know immediately if I have done so.

My brain is sometimes almost a blank-feeling, like a fuzzy, black nothing, like my brain cells are dying, like they have nothing to grasp. But that is due more to insomnia than polyradiculitis-fatigue. The insomnia invokes feelings of madness and could drive one mad if allowed to do so, or if going too long without a reprieve. 

Emotionally, anxiety has been out the roof at times. A type of paranoia not of a person or entity being after me, but rather a threat awaiting me. This extreme anxiety stems from the insomnia, not that other life circumstances and patterns are not involved. In the past month, I have had seven consecutive nights of around 4 hours of deep sleep. During those times, the anxiety was greatly reduced. Thus, I surmise that the insomnia is a (the) major trigger for the extreme anxiety. (I'm trying a new sleep medication which takes weeks to start working, so maybe it is starting to work...but the verdict is not yet known. Right now, "getting Carol to sleep" is the focused priority.)

That's all I have in me now, as far as trying to share about symptom comparisons. Bottom line is that I seem to stay around 8 or 9 on the scale. Not as bad as 12, but still...exhausting and limiting. 

I had to give up trying to ride my bike outside. I did get in 3 good rides this year, in March and April, but had to stop. (My last ride prior to March 2023 was July 30, 2022.) The rides didn't bring symptom-relief, and they exhausted an already-exhausted me. Plus, they didn't help my sleep but rather seemed to have an opposite effect. I am able to ride my indoor bike, usually 3 to 4 days a week for 20 to 30 minutes each time; often temporary relief follows. 

I endeavor to walk outside each day, somewhere between .25 and 1.1 miles depending on how I'm doing. I have to use my trekking poles when walking outside the home. I wear my back brace and wrist braces inside and outside. I'm thankful I'm still mobile.

That's all I have in me now, as far as trying to describe a couple things I do to keep my body working. 

Nature is still one of my main helps. And music. 

And nature. And guided meditations. (Thank you Insight Timer. That's a plug.) 

And music. And tonglen practice/prayer. 

And nature. And good relationships with my wellness team. 

And music. And the loving aid from my spouse. 

And nature. And writing my shorts. 

And music. And reading stories of real people overcoming, or at the very least making the best of, debilitating circumstances within webs of complexity. 

And too many to lists...

Did I mention nature? :)

Chippy & Squirrel, lunch buddies

Reynolda Gardens, April 2023

Pond along Reynold Trails, March 2023

And music? Especially Franti... :)