Bed Ridden, Kitten Encrusted

My brain’s screaming for production but my body’s holding back.  I’ve a thousand things to do, a complex hierarchy of their importance, that which comes inherent modified by the likelihood other projects may depends on their results, and I can’t stand to do more than an hour’s worth at a time.  The problem is, I can’t stand.

I tried two days ago, pushed myself to make use of the moderate decrease in pain, to finish as much as I could.  My reward was a sense that I stood in a tidal lake of pain, the sea slowly coming in, crawling up my ankle to wet my calf.

Yesterday I worked more diligently, spent the first half of the day prone, spent the latter half half-seated, forcing frequent breaks and demanding a quieter sort of production than my normal aggressive tac.  My reward was further excruciation that evening and an inability to sleep last night, drowsiness further delayed by the bad boops’ attempts at piscecicide sometime between deep dark and false dawn.  This morning, I do not recall; I woke up at three.

This is the worst attack of blood acid-crystalization* I think I’ve had.  I’m triple medicated and double folk remedied, and still my foot can bare my weight for no more than a few minutes at a time.  I consider myself someone with a high tolerance for pain: I spent an active month with a cracked hip and slipped epithesis before a routine doctor’s visit sent me to surgery; I’ve broken two ribs, and most of my toes at least once over the course of my martial career, none of which deterred me from class more than a week; I’ve been burned, stabbed, smashed, and cut by every sharp and blunt instrument in the house and available to modern medical science, with and without analgesics,  and none have broken me.  It shocks me, given all that, that this attack should so bereave me of my ability to stand.

Without standing, using my work bench, hammer, and chisel a bit difficult.  With not having my weight on my feet I’m disallowed the use of anything but my shoulders and arms to work and one loses a great deal of power and control when he’s seated.  Worse now, is that the pain persists while I’m seated.  The only positions in which I seem to find any relief are when I’m seated in bed, or lying down.  I’ve been bed-ridden before.  There were years in my life during which I was more constrained to a hospital bed than I was on my feet.  As such, I chaff more at the restriction than might some others.  You’d think I’d be prepared, that I’d’ve learned some sort of method of entertainment to cope with mattress imprisonment, and I have, but I exhausted them so thoroughly seventeen years ago that the mere reminder of them is enough to make me antsy, just in the way the smell of PA Dutch cafeteria food is so well associated with nauseous chemistry that cheap kitchens set in local grocery stores passed still make me ill.

I’ve little choice but to continue on in bed.  The pain remains a constant hum, so concentrating well enough to read is difficult.  If not for that, I’d look forward to the excused time off as a chance to catch up on the feet high backlog of texts I’d meant to ingest.  My new tools need tuning up, but I’ve watched enough youtube videos on how best to do so that anymore of them merely make me anxious to start rather than acting as a vicarious amelioration.  Kung fu is right out, disappointing as I’d just started back, doubly disappointing because we’re working on a staff form now, one of my favorite weapons.  So too are walks, pokemon or otherwise.  Try as I might, I cannot decipher an alternative to bed rest.  If only I knew that it were doing any sort of good, at least then I could view the act itself as some sort of productivity.  As of now, I know only that it hurts too much to stand.



*This sounds so much better than "gout," relaying both the truth of structure and the truth of feeling this attack inspires, devoid of the pejorative "fat man's disease" connotation.