Elephant Legs

The Elephant Legs have returned with a vengeance.

I got up in the morning and could already feel my legs seizing up. I could already feel the cement being poured into them, could feel the hardness of them. I was determined not to let it bother me, determined not to worry about it.

Even though I know what that hardness meant so early in the day. I should have listened to my body, listened to my legs, but I’m inherently stubborn. I won’t let anything stop me from doing something I want to do, even my own body.

I went to go to the post office. I had received a parcel notice and was looking forward to picking it up; what would it be? A book I had ordered? (there are several on the way) Or maybe a Christmas present from one of my heart sisters Kimberlee. I had been expecting it. I hoped that’s what it was.

After only a few steps, less than half a block, my legs started to seize up. They started to protest the very fact that I was making them walk. I figured I could make it to the post office. I had checked the directions, it should have only been a fifteen minute walk.

It ended up taking half an hour to get to the post office.

With each step, my legs grew harder and harder, more like rock than flesh. I can’t describe the amount of pain I was in; there are no words for it. All I can tell you was that I wanted to cry. I wanted to stop walking and cry right there in the middle of a sidewalk, the winter sun bright and blinding.

I did not allow myself to stop or to cry. I knew that if I started crying, I would not be able to stop. The pain made my breath catch with each step. I was limping by this point, each step more painful than the last one, but I knew that if I stopped walking, I would not be able to start again.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

So I continued to walk, continued to will myself not to cry, continued to will myself to keep walking. It was the first time I had resorted to counting in a long time. With each step I counted, I felt a surge of victory.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty

twenty one twenty two twenty three twenty four twenty five twenty six twenty seven twenty eight twenty nine thirty……

I ended up losing count several times, not being able to concentrate on continuing to walk and the pain and counting at the same time. I’m good at multi-tasking but not yesterday. Yesterday I just didn’t have it in me.

I can’t describe the pain I was in. Words hardly ever fail me but they fail me here.

I was nearing St. Paul University when I saw a young woman coming towards me. She smiled, looked as if she was going to say hello, and then stopped. Looked at me.

Looked at my legs.

I was limping with each step, barely able to pick my foot up off the ground with each step, making shuffling noises as I walked. I was trying not to cry and I watched as her smile faltered, as it changed into something that looked like loathing.

I came nearer to her. “Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Are you alright?” She asked. Disdain dripped from her lips.

“I’m disabled.” I said.

She laughed. “Oh, I thought you were drunk.” then she smiled at me again because she knew I wasn’t an alcoholic, because now it was okay to treat me like a human being, now it was alright to be nice to me; because I didn’t have a drinking problem.

I said nothing to her and kept walking. I knew I was close to my destination. The woman called after me: “Have a nice day!”

I turned around and gave her the finger.

At the post office, waiting in line to collect my package, I kept moving from foot to foot. I couldn’t put too much pressure on one foot, couldn’t stop moving because I would not be able to start walking again. I would not be able to walk.

There were tears in the back of my eyes and I blinked them away, willed them away, waited for my turn to collect my parcel. When the moment came, I almost cried with relief because it meant that my journey was half way done, meant that I would be home soon.

I took my parcel and started the journey home, willing myself to make it. I had my cell phone with me. I could have phoned a cab to pick me up and take me home; I could have called my husband who would have come to get me.

But I didn’t. Mostly because I’m stubborn. And I have a lot of pride.

So I continued to walk, no longer able to feel my legs or my feet. They were rocks now, cement poured into my skin, Elephant Legs that clumped and thumped and stompedalong. I was the Elephant Man, I was the broken boy. I was the Egg Man, Koo Koo Ka-Choo!

I saw my apartment building, I saw my home, standing tall in the distance and then I did allow myself to cry, only a little. I allowed some tears to slide down my cheeks in relief because I would be home soon. I would be home.

And I could sit down.

Such a simple thing, such a normal thing, sitting. But to me, at that moment,  it was the thing I wanted to do more than anything else in the world.

And all the while, walking towards home, I was counting.

One step at a time…

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten….

Saviour

More than ever, I think that my legs want to do me in.

Yesterday, I was getting off the buss, heading to the bookstore to buy the new Stephen King novel. I stepped off the buss and felt the ground rush up to meet my face.

Or rather, my body rushed down to meet it.

I had stepped off the back of the buss with my right leg and it had given away completely. I slammed onto the ground, the breath taken out of me, and my feet and part of my legs slid underneath the buss.

I felt a rumble above my legs. The buss was preparing to move away, with part of me underneath it.

The entire time, as I am lying there, my legs spasming full force now, no one offered to help me. I lay there, struggling to get back up on my feet with dignity, and no one offered to lend me a hand. No one asked if I was okay, no one bothered to tell me the buss was beginning to move.

They all just looked at me, stared. One woman even laughed and began to point. I tried to pull my legs out from under the buss, tried to move.

Thankfully, a woman towards the front of the buss yelled for the buss driver to stop. She waved at him and pounded on the front door. “Someones fallen back there,” she said. “Don’t move yet, he’s fallen.”

This made more people stare, those to absorbed in their own worlds who hadn’t noticed in the first place. They all looked, stared, gawked, but no one offered to step forward, no one helped.

The woman at the front of the buss watched, waited, while I got up with difficulty, feeling my cheeks flush. She gave the driver the okay sign and then came towards me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

She was older, perhaps fifty or so. She had lovely brown hair that peeked out from underneath a knit cap. “Yes,” I told her. “Thank you so much for helping me.” I wanted to reach out and touch her, make contact with her some how, to convey my thanks. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Don’t mention it.” she said. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Yes, I would have.”

“More than I can say for any of the fuckers here.” she said. “Fuckers. People fucking suck.”

“You don’t.” I said. “Thank you.” The words seemed too small, incapable of conveying my thanks.

She reached out and touched me, took my hand. “You walk carefully, okay dear?”

I nodded and watched her walk away.

My saviour.

Quivering

For the past few days, my legs have been sore but relatively quiet.

It’s been my back and arms that have been somewhat worry-some. At work the other day, I was typing away when I felt a quiver underneath my skin. I expected the quiver to come from my legs, sore as per usual. But it was my back that was making the racket.

It wasn’t a normal spasm, at least not one I’m used to. It felt like something was vibrating underneath my skin underneath my left shoulder blade. It felt like a ripple of water where muscle should be.

I sat still for a moment, trying to let the moment pass. But it happened again. There was pain but also more shaking of the muscles, quivering of the skin.

Later, I would not be able to hold my pen. I would pick it up and start writing and it would fall out of my grasp as if my hands and arms were jelly and not capable of movement. Flashes of pain would run down my right arm, spasms, and I had to wait for them to pass.

In the evening, my body preparing to ride along the sleep highway on that train powered by dreams, my back quivered and shook. My legs responded, not ones to be quiet for very long and I couldn’t get comfortable.

As I lay there, waiting for sleep to claim me, I wished for a new kind of dream. I wished to dream of my body without pain, without discomfort.

But I already knew that the Sandman would deny me my wish.

Bodily Negotiations

I have been in negotiations with my body lately.

It’s not counting, not really. I wake up in pain and try to get myself through the day. I am awake and I feel my legs; they have gone rock hard in the night, the muscles knotted into tree trunks. Elephant legs.

 I think to my legs: We’re going to have a nice shower and get relaxed. They seem to like this idea because they allow me to get up, to move myself into the washroom.

In the shower, I tell them: You’ve got a long day ahead of you. You can do this.

They relax a little bit more. They like it when I show confidence in them, that I am trying to trust them.

Sometimes they slip up though; sometimes, there are brief flashes of hot pain in my back, my legs. I try to ignore them, try to concentrate on something else to keep my mind occupied.

Later, I remind my body the deal we had: Listen, I thought we agreed. You can do this. Just remember to breathe. Try not to look unfocused and give it a rest, will you?

My body seems not to like this attitude very much as it responds with a quick loss of balance or I trip on my own feet while walking.

Later, my body relaxes, just for a moment. It’s apologizing. A brief release from pain, a breath of air. Sorry, it says.

Then it starts again. I wait until I can get home to my husband, to a piece of joy so that the pain isn’t too difficult. I wait until I can sit, somewhat comfortably (my legs moving and shaking) so that I can read a good book.

Usually during my reading, it will occur to me that I was talking to myself. I am negotiating with me.

Editing My Words

  

This has been a busy weekend. We took down the Christmas tree, put the decorations away, had people over for dinner, moved the office around. And I handed in the edited memoir to Scott Pack at The Friday Project.

 

It was great feeling to know that I had come to the end of the edits, that I had been able to wade through the words again. It had taken me a lot longer than I thought it would, not for wanting of trying.

 

It took longer than planned mostly because it was difficult. It was hard to write the memoir but it was even more hard for some reason to edit it. To wade back into the words and make them right, make them fit.

 

I’m more than proud of the finished product though. Now at least I can take a bit of a break, I can let my mind rest a bit. Though there have been other things going on in my life, the memoir has held a spot backstage for some time now.

 

I am always thinking about it even when I don’t mean to. It held me in its grasp, it’s words my words, my story. I can’t begin to describe what it feels like to have everything written down, to have my words, my life, staring back at me from the page.

 

This means I can finally get back to blogging on a regular basis, something I know that I have been lax about. It’s such a relief, but now the worry will begin to set it.

 

Now that I’ve handed it back to The Friday Project, will they be as happy with it as I am? Will they find it engaging, enjoyable, inspirational? Will they find solace in my words as I have?

 I can only hope they do. All I can do now is wait, enjoy a good book and then take things one step at a time.