My weekend began with a text to Saint Luke; ‘I’m 79% sure I’m having a heart attack’. I wasn’t, a chainsaw had just taken residence in my chest. I crawled into bed and was surprised when a family of Mexican neighbours arrived to wish me well. I was grateful that they’d come, all eight of them, but as they sat awkwardly on my bed I felt terribly self-conscious and the small talk was dwindling. I shouted to Saint Luke for back up, concerned that no one had offered these poor Mexicans a drink! But he wasn’t there and neither were the Mexicans, so I fell back into a fevered sleep.
Saint Luke mused on the ‘best-laid plans’ for our weekend that were promptly cast aside, whilst I wrestled with the aches in my body, the chainsaw in my chest and the Mexicans on my bed. My dad gently suggested, ‘perhaps you’ve overdone it this week?’ If overdoing it means racking up copious lines of kale and raving (reading) until 8pm, then YES I’d overdone it. ¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! Somebody stop me!
And so it came to pass that I should learn another solemn lesson; I simply can’t make plans, no matter how modest, not even best-laid ones. I spent Saturday sulking in bed, wondering if there’s anything more pathetic than crying over a lost trip to the supermarket. I used to be fun. I used to be a contender! The most frustrating thing is not being able to predict when I’ll be visited by Lucian Lupus, or Mexicans, because there seems to be no warning, not even a courtesy call. How rude!*
Last week I was thrilled to have accomplished five days of work with relatively manageable pain, as long as I kept my inner tempo tuned to soft jazz. This is no easy feat for a girl who opposes the sedentary beat she has to keep**. You see, because I’m upbeat and excitable by nature, I often forget myself at work when we win a new job, or someone tells a hilarious joke or reveals a most wonderful sandwich, only for my body to be thrown back down by a chainsaw. My natural and forced rhythms are constantly at odds; it’s like an experimental jazz battle in there (with brief interludes from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.) So perhaps I should have predicted the fall out at the end of last week, which left me surrounded by Mexicans and in a lot of pain, just like Miles Davis***. And maybe my dad was right (he tends to be) and I did too much. And maybe I brought it on myself. Damn that natural funky rhythm of mine!
But where does that leave me? I don’t want to slow down the up-tempo beat that makes me, me. I don’t want to walk instead of run, smirk instead of smile, titter instead of laugh with my head thrown back. I don’t want to dampen my spark any more than I’ve already had to, because I’m in danger of fizzling out entirely. I can barely recognise myself beneath all the cotton wool, and I’m finding it hard to breath.
Before my laboured beat makes me feel downbeat, I must remember that this departure from myself is Only Temporary. Lupus Troopers, when the music changes, so must the dance my friends. Hang up your sequined trousers, but don’t abandon the idea of ever wearing them again. Leave your best-laid plans at the door and collect them on the way out of this mess. Sit back, relax, turn your electric blanket up to 11, and tune in to soft jazz. Lay down that boogie and play that funky music, until your pills kick in. (And please don’t stress if you’re unexpectedly visited by Mexicans; perhaps they’re listening to the music too).
* I’m not suggesting all Mexicans are rude – just hallucinated ones.
** This sentence is also a poem. You’re welcome.
*** Replace ‘Mexicans’ with ‘New Yorkers’ and ‘pain’ with ‘trumpets’. Now that’s Miles Davis.
In days of yore, when the sparkly trousers were in action.