And just when you think it’s all going well, the old devil returns.
During the past few weeks I’d been enjoying copious doses of Advent and Christmas music, predominantly of the sacred variety, as I looked forward to our quiet Christmas celebrations (just ma belle Helen, Beth and myself). To be perfectly honest, I was quite surprised by how well I’d managed Christmas decorations, food preparation, and sundry minor pressures such festivities may place upon one. Admittedly, the run up to Christmas week wasn’t without an occasional venture into the realm of shatteredness, with spasmodic eruptions of acute pain.
As lunch-time on Boxing Day approached, my chronically throbbing aching wrists allied themselves with intense convulsive pains in both biceps and shoulders. It felt as if my torso was being crushed whilst, simultaneously, being stretched on a rack. The effort of holding the DVD recorder’s remote control, in readiness for starting off a recording, seemed to set every nerve-ending on edge; a kind of pulsating bruise surged through my forearms and shoulders which, in turn, contributed to an all pervasive feeling of nausea. For the first time in ages, the degree and intensity of pain and discomfort produced a convulsive sobbing response.
I love and adore my family, every moment spent with ma belle amoureuse affirms the privilege of love, and I always wish to affirm all the most positive values and emotions that the season represents. The joy of the season is somewhat marred by the realization / recognition that even my somewhat low-key exertion, as we prepare and celebrate, seems to demand a degree of excruciating payback in return.