Months ago, I thought this would be a nifty thing to do. Let's stand for an hour! Post ARDS, what have I done? (Okay, I do the step. I work my abs. Hamstrings. Quads. deltoids, rhomboids, triceps, biceps...) Even with almost useless lungs, if I make my body stronger, I can use oxygen more efficiently. Therefore, if I were a slug, I'd need more oxygen than I would if I were in better shape.) When the medical miracle that can make me feel better becomes reality, I need a strong body on which a doc can perform surgery.
I admit, the "workouts" are pathetic, but it's the best I can do. Remember people, being in shape is relative. Lordy, did I have gorgeous quadriceps! No more. They're just...smaller. I loved being physically strong. Even though I'm a waif, I walked down the street like I owned it. I dare you. No one would mess with this little girl. (Yeah, right. Sometimes fantasy is a very powerful and helpful exercise in avoiding the horrors of reality. Sometimes it's just stupid. But it's always better than a leg lift. That's for sure.)
And the goddamned steroids I have had to take on several occasions has left me with an ever-shrinking half bicycle tire on my front torso. That blows. One thing I do still have are seriously fine abs. Now I must wait years before this will be evident once again. They're covered with cortisone fat for the time being. Once again, once again. It's a fucking broken record. Well, girly, once again may never happen, so get used to it. (sigh.)
A challenge. Like my own little marathon- for gimps. (Yes, I do feel a kindred spirit with the gimp world even if I'm not a proper gimp. I do feel a very real tie to these folks, and I think this gives me the right to be offensive. Taking the foul word as my own. I never said I was correct in this, but this is what I tell myself..And anyone who thinks otherwise, do I really care? Not even one tiny bit.) I tell you, it feels really good not to be nice. I was always nice. I think nice is the easy way to say absolutely nothing nice or interesting about a person. Nice. It's a goddamned throwaway. I am so done being a throwaway. I am a person to be reckoned with. I'm passionate. I'm angry. (One of my favorite quotes of my many favorite quotes on my FB profile, "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore." I think that just about sums me up.)
So one idiotic evening. I stood for an hour. Woohoo. I proved nothing except that I was total idiot for doing it. My back, no matter how much I'm able to work it, can't carry that kind of weight anymore. The weight of my torso. As my chiropractor, Laurie tells me, our bodies are made for walking- not standing still. And funny, when I walk the few steps I can take before my lungs go into crisis mode, lo and behold, my back doesn't hurt. So I now have a very long rehab staring me in the face to fix what I fucked up so royally.
Now I have to do what I'm told and be patient. Being a nice little girl, I'm very good at doing what I'm told. But I crave instant gratification. And that won't be happening regarding the things I find most importance. Working alveoli from stem cells. Alleviating back pain. Accepting that I may be welcome everywhere, but I can't ever go. And the polishing up the Since When saga and preparing it for mailings to prospective agents. These dreams work on geologic time. Talk to me later on in the Cenozoic, and I'll give you a status report. I only have hope for my back feeling better in real time. Is Laurie a publisher on the side or an alveoli/stem cell researcher? I wouldn't put it past her.