On being in pain (The Recovery Series)

I’m lying in my bed. It’s been a while, but I don’t remember pain like this. Even the brilliant drugs that they give you in the hospital doesn’t work. So what best to do with pain but to write. This is my recovery series. It mightn’t make much sense. I blame the pain.

F**k me – it hurts!

A chunk of me is gone. But it was an evil chunk so I’m not really going to miss it. I’m all taped up and I don’t know the size of the incision. The surgery took twice as long than was previously planned because there was twice as much to take out. The alien beings spawned and multiplied, building their little alien colony, planning to invade this new earth called Me. The heroic ‘Bruce Willis’ in a surgical gown flew in on a scalpel and saved mankind. Well, womankind. And like every Bruce Willis movie, it was not without carnage.

The pain is really quite something. And that’s the only way I can describe it. It’s really just…quite…something. If it was a colour, it would be something florescent, and bright, like reflective yellow-orange-green-red. Which is the colour my face turns when the spasms hit me (or would turn if I wasn’t this fetching shade of burnt-caramel). If it was a sound, it would be sledgehammer-traffic-being-scraped-across-a-blackboard combined with something from Phillip Glass. If it were a taste, it would be fennel.

Movement is my enemy. Clothes are my enemy. Air is my enemy. Everything that touches or bounces causes me to turn with sailor-like profanity on my poor cat, whose disdain for me has now turned into a mild amusement as he tries to use the very same pained body area as a scratching post. My beloved has shortened his visits upstairs, for fear that Exorcist-like scenes await him. Or it might be the anti-embolism socks that the after-care nurses, who call me daily, insist I wear because I can’t go dancing around just yet. I tried to plead with them that my life was just as sedentary, or worse, pre-operation. They’re not having any of it. These socks are probably not the least attractive item of clothing that I’ve worn in my lifetime, but they won’t do anything for my love life. Which is for the best right now.

It feels as if they have removed the man-eating cells and replaced it with a ferret. A really angry ferret. A ferret who really loved the outside world, running around with all his ferret friends, having a merry ferret romp, and who is now extremely perplexed and very dissatisfied with this new arrangement of having to live inside of a right boob. I think he wants out of this situation. And he is reneging on his contract in the most physical, claw-y, bite-y manner possible.

There is a lesson in this pain. And I promise I will find it. I just cannot find it right now. I am having a fight with a ferret.

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Published in: on February 24, 2013 at 7:55 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Do you hear the people sing?

What do people hear when you speak? As a matter of fact, what do people hear when they see you coming?

It is a well known fact that, based on your past behaviour, people will already start to hear what will come out of your mouth, the tone, the content, the language, long before you utter a word. You know this by the attitude that they take on when you approach. Observe the next time you go up to someone to ask for something. What’s their body language saying? Are they happy to talk to you? Do they take on that professional glaze, a pinned on smile and glassy eyes, because they know it is their duty to listen but they would rather be elsewhere? Do they become impatient and closed down when you call their name?

And if they do any of these things, why do you think that is?

If all you ever do is go to a person to complain, if all you do is pour your heart and soul out to one person, listing your litany of woes and trials without engaging the other, if all you ever do is boast about your accomplishments because you know that the person will listen, because they always do, then what do you think the physical, emotional and psychological response of the other person will be when they see you approaching?

What is the noise you make when you go through this world? Is it a joyous one, that helps to lighten the mood and bring a smile to the other person’s day? Is it one full of sexual energy, that makes one half the population sit up and swoon and makes the other half regard you with scant courtesy or at least regard you as trite? Is it a weary noise, a constant dull hum of woe and worries, that sucks the energy of the listener, deflating them at the mere sight of your lips poised in preparation for speech? Is it an angry blare, that causes the other to tighten up and ready themselves for the onslaught of war?

You are responsible for the song that you bring into this world. And, of course, we cannot sing the same song at every moment of our lives. But we can have a predominant sound. And it is that predominant sound that people respond to, it is that aural aura that surrounds you that reverberates with the other souls whom you encounter.

What is your song going to be?

Published in: on June 15, 2012 at 12:38 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Where do nice guys finish?

I do my work. I am there on time, I treat people with politeness and respect, I am helpful, encouraging, thoughtful, fair. I am a team player, and I am independent. I try to make little trouble and do things on my own. This leads to me being forgotten.

My colleague is demanding, a solo player with little thought for the needs of others. He is talented but sometimes selfish. He treats people with little regard and he makes sure that everything he needs comes first. He is held up with the highest regards, hailed as a genius.

Should this lead me to behave differently? Should I be encouraged to become a diva, a tyrant, a bore? Or should I continue along my path?

Published in: on December 14, 2010 at 3:16 pm  Leave a Comment  
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