Wishful Dancing

I am sure that my legs have it in for me.

Yesterday, on the buss, I completely lost my balance. One moment I was standing, and then, when the driver turned, my legs gave out. I fell into the lap of a lady and was deeply apologetic. She smiled and said it was no problem. “I fell a few days ago and put my hands out to stop myself from falling. I ended up feeling some woman’s breast.”

At least she had a sense of humour.

Today, I was walking to work and took a step, only to find myself falling. My left leg had completely given out and I ended up falling hard onto my back. I should have known that something like this was going to happen.

Today, I’ve tripped over my feet six times already and each time I have to catch myself, put my hands out to catch something, to grab something, so that I do not fall. There is no warning for this, no remedy I can think of.

I wish I could walk properly, that my legs would cooperate with me, that they would take me where I need to go without trying to do me in at the same time. It doesn’t seem like a fair trade, pain for walking.

But nothing in life is easy.

For the past couple of weeks, a new pain has started to form in my legs. Instead of my regular spasms, I’ve had what can only be described as tremors. Usually they’ll be on the sides of my thighs or the backs of my legs.

They start with a light tickling, as if my leg has gone to sleep. But then they progress to a hot, brief spasm. I can feel the muscles moving, more so than usual. It’s like their dancing underneath my skin. Even now, sitting here typing this, I can feel one beginning in my right thigh.

It’s as if my muscles are dancing to their own beat, to their own music. I wish I could hear the music so that I could dance with them, to their tribal beat.

After the music, after the spasms, my legs are incredibly sore and walking is painful. It hurts to put pressure on my feet, to support my body weight. I wonder, briefly, what this means and then put it out of my head.

I don’t want to think about that now.

Instead, I continue to count through the pain, count through the spasms.

One two three four, one two three four, one two three four, one two three four.

I pretend that I am dancing, that I am moving to a rhythm, moving to a beat. Maybe, if I pretend that I’m dancing long enough, the pain will go away.

Thankful for Pain

Last week, another package came for me.

I knew that I would have to pick it up at the post office. I am ashamed to admit that I was afraid to go.

I was afraid to go to the Post Office because of what happened last time; I was afraid to go because I thought it might happen again.

It is very hard for me to admit that I am afraid of anything as I usually confront that kind of thing head on. I usually ignore the pain in my legs, my feet, tell myself not to be a baby and trudge on forward.

That’s what I did the last time I went to the Post Office; and look what happened then.

I woke up last Saturday and knew that I would have to take the buss to the post office. I knew that I would not be able to walk, that my legs felt the same way they did when I ended up shuffling along, barely able to walk.

It mollified me to admit I had to take a buss. I was embarrassed by this and somewhat humiliated. But after the last time, that last walk with Elephant Legs, it took a week for them to be alright again. It took a week for the pain to go away.

But it never completely goes away anymore.

The entire time I was getting ready, I kept telling myself that it was alright to take the buss, that it didn’t mean I was weak. I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t be ashamed, that I should be proud of myself for acknowledging my limits, for sticking within them.

But even now, a week later, it still stifles me; it still rankles. And it pisses me the hell off. Normally when I get pissed off, I do something about it, but this week has been difficult.

I have been in pain almost every day. At work, I concentrate so as not to show the pain in my face when my back spasms. I remember to tell myself not to make any noises or let sound escape from me when pain rips across my legs or shoulders.

I am ashamed to admit that perhaps there is nothing I can do, that my body will eventually win the war I have been fighting for almost thirty years.

But there is some compensation to take from all this. I was supposed to have died, to have passed away after a few breaths. I was not supposed to have lived. Thankfully I have proved that doctors can  in fact be wrong.

I will be thirty in August of this year. I have had thirty wonderful years and hope to live for sixty wonderful more. Though I am filled with pain I am also filled with hope. I wonder if one is not a product of the other.

For even though the pain humiliates me, shames me, limits me.

It lets me know I am alive and I am thankful.

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.