Wednesday 9 January 2013
The impression over Christmas has been confirmed, I am not getting better, the limbo bar has been lowered and I'm going to have to aim at doing even less.
Having discussed my symptoms with my occupational therapist, I should definitely consider myself housebound, and I should try for a few days of bed rest, or as near as I can manage. That's for next week when I've thought through the practicalities, me living alone.
They say the world is getting smaller. Mine appears to be.
Mood is adequate, I can't say ecstatic, as the prospects for getting the garden operational this year are not looking good.
I am definitely running on black humour, hence this little piece:
Having CFS / ME is rather like being dead. But without any of the advantages.
At least when you're dead you don't have to keep explaining your condition to people.
And when you're dead the lack of mobility really doesn't bother you.
At least when you're dead the stiffness passes off after a while.
And you are not in the bad books of family or friends for "not joining in."
At least when you're dead there's no anxiety about brown envelopes coming through the letter box.
And there's at least a reasonable chance of ATOS not finding you fit for work.
At least when you're dead there's no daily struggle to get dressed.
And no-one is likely to mark you down on what you look like.
At least when you're dead there's no need to keep lurching around like a zombie.
(Unless you really want to.)
And the doctors, at long last, can actually say what's wrong with you.
No, I am not depressed or suicidal.
Just having a slight flare up of the black and twisted humour.