Crick and Crack

It’s common knowledge that my legs don’t usually like me to walk but lately they don’t like it when I try to stand either.

 At first I thought it was a fluke: I went to stand, to get out of my chair while I was at work, and I had to sit back down right away. Both my legs had given way and, if there had not been a chair below me, I would have fallen.

I figured it was a fluke, a freak chance that both my legs spasmed at the same time. I thought nothing of it. But more and more now, I have to pay attention when I’m standing.

It’s as if my legs get comfortable while I’m sitting and they don’t have to support my weight. It’s as if they are more quick at voicing their unrest, their out rage, by forcing me to fall on my ass.

The other day, waiting at the Husband’s work, I tried to stand when he came out of his office so that we could leave. He saw me sway, saw me have to sit back down hard. He put an arm out for me so that I could get my balance and I caught it, held it until I could sit back down.

“What happened there?” he asked.

 ”I couldn’t stand.”

It’s happened at home too, trying to lift myself from the comfort of the couch, the seduction of the sofa. Bright searing pain flares up both my legs the moment I try to stand.

The other day, I felt my left leg give out while I was walking and had to let myself fall into a cement post. I held on to it, almost as if it were a lover, for support.

I know that the cold weather plays a part in how my muscles behave.  However, I wish that for one day there would not be pain while I walked, sat, strolled or meandered. But this is a wish that won’t come true.

So now, more than ever it seems, I have resorted to my old trick of counting. I hear the crick and crack of my muscles, of my bones and I count to get myself past the pain. I count to get myself beyond the soreness, the outcry of my muscles.

I count so that I can remember how to breathe.

Stumble and Disdain

My legs are continuing to betray me.

I don’t know why they have it in for me, but they do. I wonder if that twin of mine, the one who rests inside my body, has hired my legs to do me in, to take me down.

On my way to work this morning I was walking and then, suddenly, I wasn’t. It felt like I was falling, sinking to the side. I had gone to take a step only to have my other leg give out, give way.

I stumbled, hands out in front of me. I was able to right myself, to straighten up. I could feel the spasms in my right leg and they thrummed and hummed under my skin. I stood where I was for a moment, trying to make sure that I was alright, that I would be okay.

I took a step, my right leg sounding out with a bright flash of pain quickly followed by one in my left leg. Each step hurt but I walked as well as I could until I was able to sit on a bench. Dew and water soaked into my pants, but I didn’t care.

I only knew I had to sit.

I waited for the spasms to pass, for the humming to stop. A woman was watching me and shook her head, whispered something to her co-worker. They had seen the whole thing. I felt myself blush, redden, in embarrassment.

They both passed me, giving me disdainful looks.

I wonder if they thought I was a bum or an alcoholic? Their minds had been made up by what they had witnessed.

Neither asked if I was alright.

Even now, I can feel the thrum of the spasm’s in my legs, my back responding every once in a while. It’s not one to be ignored for too long.

Even now I wonder if I should have said something, explained myself to those two women.

Even now, I wonder if it would have mattered.

Either way, I wait for the pain to pass, for the spasms to settle and think of things that bring me joy.

Sewing Thoughts

I have been negligent in writing lately. This is mostly because I have been doing the most dreaded thing a writer can face: editing! While I know that editing is an essential process, I don’t have to enjoy it.

It’s been an odd experience going through the first draft of the memoir. It’s been weird reading everything and having to relive everything I’ve written down. I find that words are like time capsules: they hold time still for you. They hold time in it’s grasp and, even years later, you can be transported back.

I am glad, however, that the pieces of the puzzle have come together. As I edit and go through what I’ve written I remember more; I am visited by more ghosts. I wonder if I am like a modern day Scrooge to be visited by Ghosts of Christmas past.

I feel as if I’m sewing the pieces together now, giving the chapters and parts a glue and mortar made out of thread that pulls the pieces together, pulls them together to form a cohesive whole.

It’s odd to have my life in a book. It’s bizarre to read my words knowing that others will read them.

It’s also a relief to know that I’ve written everything down. To know that I have embarked on what is a fabulous journey and that I’ve survived to tell my tale.