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the rictus of worry
Jul. 4th, 2006 09:56 amMy weekends are almost as hectic as my weekdays. Maybe more so. Appointments with nurses, children to exercise, meals to cook, dogs to herd, medical supplies to buy. My mother has been instructed firmly by her own physical therapist to stay off her foot as much as possible. I have to insist that she sit down and not cook the chicken herself, not move the chairs herself, not do the laundry herself.
This is the first weekend with Ellen home. There is a lot to adjust to. I hope that with some effort we can settle into routines that work for everyone over the coming weeks. I have only had time to help Ellen with her PT a couple of times since she came home on Friday, and am worrying a lot about it. I know that a day or two won't make a lot of difference, but I know the importance of establishing healthy, consistent routines, and the difficulty of breaking a bad pattern and developing a good one. When we do get to work on her PT she has been insistent about doing all of her exercises as completely as possible, so that's encouraging.
Every night I am exhausted, but it's not the fine clean kind of exhaustion that comes from working your body hard, that leaves you light and relaxed at the end of the day. It's a bitter, cold exhaustion that comes from holding yourself very tightly in a small space for a long period of time, a kind of rictus of worry. My days spin with mad activity, but it all still leaves me frustrated.
My parents have a swimming pool. (I can't believe how lucky we are, to live near my parents who have their own swimming pool. The boys have been spending about one hour out of every three in the water.) Swimming in it reminds me of the difference between swimming in a pool and swimming in a lake. In the lake you can swim, and swim, and swim as long and far at a stretch as you like before turning around. In the pool, you reach the edge and have to turn around after only a few strokes. As lovely as it is, it feels perversely cramped, confining compared with the limitless freedom of the lake. All the time, it's bumping up against the edges, turning, turning, turning, turning, turning.
This is the first weekend with Ellen home. There is a lot to adjust to. I hope that with some effort we can settle into routines that work for everyone over the coming weeks. I have only had time to help Ellen with her PT a couple of times since she came home on Friday, and am worrying a lot about it. I know that a day or two won't make a lot of difference, but I know the importance of establishing healthy, consistent routines, and the difficulty of breaking a bad pattern and developing a good one. When we do get to work on her PT she has been insistent about doing all of her exercises as completely as possible, so that's encouraging.
Every night I am exhausted, but it's not the fine clean kind of exhaustion that comes from working your body hard, that leaves you light and relaxed at the end of the day. It's a bitter, cold exhaustion that comes from holding yourself very tightly in a small space for a long period of time, a kind of rictus of worry. My days spin with mad activity, but it all still leaves me frustrated.
My parents have a swimming pool. (I can't believe how lucky we are, to live near my parents who have their own swimming pool. The boys have been spending about one hour out of every three in the water.) Swimming in it reminds me of the difference between swimming in a pool and swimming in a lake. In the lake you can swim, and swim, and swim as long and far at a stretch as you like before turning around. In the pool, you reach the edge and have to turn around after only a few strokes. As lovely as it is, it feels perversely cramped, confining compared with the limitless freedom of the lake. All the time, it's bumping up against the edges, turning, turning, turning, turning, turning.
