The kitchen is clean, the coffee is prepared for morning, lunches are bagged and I am ready for some music and the eye candy of Blake Sheldon. My vision for this evening's events is so clear. So simple. so solitary and safe. Maybe half way through the show I will even pour a little glass of red, red
But first I need to finish the task at hand. Hand poised, fingers ready to grasp, legs ready and willing...
And that's all I remember. In less than a split of a second, the world no longer looks as it should. My head is actually on the floor, saved from a gash by the eyeglasses that lay shattered beside me. Legs bent at the knee, arms splayed on the kitchen tile floor. The sound of my fall resonating in my head but muffled enough not to carry through the air waves to alarm the rest of the household.
I close my eyes and breathe. With mouth closed I will a deep cleansing inhale through the nose followed by a forceful Yoga exhale through the mouth. Being mindful of any possible undetected injuries I rise to my knees, rolling my head gently and slowly.
It takes several breaths to allow the rest of me to become upright, but the next I know I am once again on eye level with the space I normally inhabit.
The first time this happened, I wasn't so lucky.
"Hey, Mom, what are you doing under the table?"
"Looking for an earring. No big deal."
A strange electrical tingle burns through my body, making me wonder if it is signal of a growing lesion. Is that even possible? I silently beg my hands to stop shaking and gingerly grasp the back of a kitchen chair. But I really can't feel the wood. I must trust the rest of me to remain on my feet.
This was such a good day. I had even walked without my cane. Energy had infused itself and normalcy was rejuvenating. Now this. All I wanted was to lie down, close my eyes and pretend to be whole.
After making my way to the original destination of the sofa, my hands lifted my legs on to the cushions. Didn't look like wine would be my drink of choice...at least not for now.
Reclaiming the appropriate television channel, I listened to the friendly rivalry between Adam Levine and Blake, eyes closed. My legs hurt so badly. Like they were growing into adolescence.
A doctor told me one time there was no such thing as growing pains. Poppycock! Tell that to my teenage son. I remember the feeling. The aching legs, the blinding head pains. My skin stretching to cover the bones that screamed with alarm. Was my youth-age non-growing pains an early sign of multiple sclerosis?
Earlier in the evening a former colleague mentioned that her grand daughter was working on a school project she referred to as "My ability without the Dis." As that thought swirled in my mind, I silently applauded her goal to convince her classmates that disabilities needed to be recognized in society as another part of life and not an oddity or negative characteristic.
As I attempt to relax and fall into the extraordinary musical talents on the television, a fierce cramp locks itself around the left calf of my leg and I swallow a pitiful whimper.
Have you ever tried to massage yourself ? It just doesn't work. Especially when your hands refuse to exert the pressure needed to fully kneed the knots effectively.
Don't tell me this isn't growing pains.
Maybe I'll have one little glass of vino after all.
Here's What Happens When You Drink Red Wine Every Nighthttp://time.com/4070762/red-wine-resveratrol-diabetes/)
Lisa, The Lady with the Cane