Since yesterday lunch-time the discomfort has become quite extreme, in fact I don’t know why I try to soften the sentiment by substituting the word discomfort for what has ranged from excruciating pain through agonizing, nausea inducing, aches. For several days back pains have flared up, presumably related to the herniated disc, to the extent that it has proved virtually impossible to find a comfortable position seated, reclining, or attempting to shuffle about, for considerable periods of time.
For a couple of days my lower limbs have had that achingly rubbery feel that I always used to associate with a bad bout of flu. Cervical and axillary lymph nodes, in neck and armpits, have once again taken on a most disconcerting tenderness, as if striving to draw my attention away from those aches that seem to flit between elbows and wrists. Gosh, as I write this down, it’s just dawning on me what bodily excitements I bear witness to.
Chronic abdominal spasms, and erratic spasms of irritation in the upper digestive tract, make almost perfect companions to the not infrequent chest pains. It’s almost as if some great controller has decided that no part of my torso or limbs should feel lonesome; I must admit that my body’s erratic thermostat, with the dance between overheated and over-chilled clamminess, is beginning to feel absolutely normal.
A couple of weekends ago, I was so proud of my achievement in attending two events
of moderate socializing on consecutive days, but within thirty–six hours payback had well and truly kicked in. On the Monday, after the social weekend, it came as something of a surprise to hear my GP utter those unexpected words, “don’t push yourself”. When it comes to an illness like ME, there couldn’t be any more sensible words of warning. Trouble is, on those rare occasions, when one feels able to manage a modest amount of exertion, it’s not always obvious where the boundaries lie.
Pacing is so vital but, at times, one seems to be set on an almost interminable learning curve.