October 16, 2006

• Cursed Memories

  “Cursed Memories” is the subtitle of the PS2 game, Disgaea 2, that I’m
  currently playing.  I suppose it’s natural enough that those words
  would have come to mind today as the work I was doing in the yard
  reminded me of a time seven years ago when I was doing a similar task.

  At that time, I had been in an extended period of remission.  I
  had been capable of nearly normal levels of activity, even if I did
  occasionally need extra time to recover from fatigue.  I had been
  completely off asthma medication for about eight years, except for an
  occasional use of an over-the-counter inhaler if heavy exertion or
  laughing too hard, for example, triggered a rare attack.

  Doug, Greyfox and I had been getting in firewood for the winter. 
  We had bought a load of birch rounds, which had been dumped beside the
  driveway.  The three of us were working on getting it split,
  hauled closer to the house in a wheelbarrow, and stacked.  We
  worked together at times, sometimes in pairs, and sometimes one of us
  would get out there alone and shift some wood.  That day, Doug was
  in school and Greyfox was in Talkeetna at his stand, working.

  I had split several rounds, probably enough wood to fill the
  wheelbarrow twice.  It was piling up around the chopping block, so
  I put down the axe and moved the wheelbarrow over to where I was
  working.  As I bent to pick up a piece of wood, I pitched forward
  onto my face.  I didn’t even feel dizzy until after I’d gotten up
  again.  The most severe M.E. exacerbation to date hit me that
  suddenly.

  It was probably a viral infection that hit me.  There is a
  widespread belief that myalgic encephalomyelopathy / chronic fatigue
  immunodysfunction syndrome occurs as a sequel to viral
  infections.  Whatever it was, I was in bad shape.  For months
  I could not get from room to room without hanging onto something or
  someone.  I cruised around the walls and furniture like an infant
  learning to walk.  The effort of disentangling the covers to roll
  over in bed was more than I could manage without triggering an asthma
  attack.

  Remembering this is unpleasant, for sure.  But that’s not what
  triggered the “cursed memories” thought.  Remembering how ill I
  have been might tend to get me back into thinking of myself as being
  ill.  I am walking a fine line here between denial and
  defeatism.  Realistically, I’m not as strong and healthy as I had
  been before that relapse, but neither am I as sick and helpless as I
  had been immediately after it.

  Today, I worked until I got out of breath.  I was picking up split
  wood and small rounds from the ground around the big woodpile. 
  The spruce and hemlock, I piled next to Doug’s chopping block to be
  split for kindling.  The few pieces of useless poplar, and
  anything too rotten to burn, I tossed off into the woods.  The
  birch, I pitched toward the cabin, where Doug has started a stack under
  the roof overhang at the end of the porch.  I couldn’t pitch it
  all the way.  It’s about three pitches from the woodpile to the
  porch.

  Aware that my energy is limited, I tried to work smart.  I
  switched between overhand and underhand pitches, and used both hands on
  bigger pieces.  I said to myself a couple of times, “Work smarter,
  not harder.”  I need such advice, really I do.  I noticed as
  I worked that I made more distance underhanded than overhanded.  I
  got more distance with my left arm than with the right, but with less
  accuracy.  The greater distance might have been because my right
  arm had begun to fatigue before I started using the left.

  I enjoyed the exercise and activity.  Beyond the physical exhilaration, I enjoy the idea 
  of recovery, remission, or whatever is going on here.  I started
  gradually withdrawing from my asthma medications a few months
  ago.  I stopped the Singulair pills all at once, cold turkey, but
  tapered off on the Advair inhalers, going down first to every two days
  and then to every three days.  Now I only use Advair when I feel
  the burning sensation in my lungs, which has been about once a week
  this month.  Today’s exertions did render me short of breath for a
  while, but I recovered from that without even resorting to any
  albuterol.

  I feel the burn in my muscles, but that’s something I often feel even
  when I’m not exerting myself.  That might be the only plus to this
  disorder:  muscles don’t atrophy with inactivity, because the
  motor neurons are firing all the time.  It’s the reason we have
  the fatigue, muscle spasms, and discomfort, but there is that one
  advantageous aspect to it, and Mama always told me to look on the
  bright side.

  I can hear thumping noises, so I know Doug is either pitching wood at
  the porch or splitting some.  I need, first of all, to get
  something to eat.  Then I will decide whether I’ll go back out and
  do more work today.  This is what makes my day:  having the
  option, not being so sick that the decision is already made for me.

  
  

  • 6:23 pm
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