In the end, I stayed in bed only one day and that was hideous on the back of my head, my arms and legs, not to mention three of the four ulcers which are on my back. Both the nurse and OT wanted me to rest, but not bed-rest. The only problem is, that the hardest part of the day is getting me out of bed. So I came up with a new plan: half a valium, one Panadol and loud Baroque trumpet music to distract me. With their help, I've managed to get up the last three days but, when I'm on the wheelchair, I'm cast.
In normal circumstances the injury I have sustained either from a pinged cartilage or inter-costal muscle or a cracked rib would heal within six to eight weeks. But how normal is M.S.?
However, the pain and the helplessness have not dampened my poetry. Below, are the latest snippets. I'm disappointed that my last poem, "Massacre", appeared in the middle of the Christmas rush as I really wanted to know how other people had fitted the shootings into their belief systems.
I'm very grateful for all the loving support I have received. Because everything is done through an intermediary — holding a landline to my ear, setting up Skype or writing an email— I very rarely initiate, but mostly respond. The blog entries are my way of communicating.
The mathematics of living
Quadratic equations seem not to work
in my case; x = minus b
plus or minus the square root etc
sits uneasily against
achievement, privilege, illness and loss
which cannot be corralled into one pen.
This seems too great an imbalance.
I'm running out of metaphors
in the prolonged dispute
with my illness. It's like arguing
with a fundamentalist preacher
who has all the answers, even
before I've framed the questions.
I hate to acknowledge defeat,
especially when it's to do with words
but I must admit
I'm going tongue-tied.