Some people aren’t very perceptive, especially those who are completely self-absorbed. As anyone with an illness that includes profound fatigue knows, just because we’re taking care of our responsibilities, it doesn’t mean we actually feel well enough to do any of it. We do it because we must. If I had the option, I’d hire an attractive man-servant to take care of me and my “responsibilities”.
I have heart issues (officially known as dilated cardiomyopathy with left-sided/diastolic heart failure). These symptoms are somewhat improved with my access to oxygen. I also have POTS, which means even though my oxygen saturation is north of 90%, half of the blood in my body still pools in my lower extremities and abdomen when I’m standing. Both of these contribute to what I like to call relative hypoxia/hypoperfusion in my brainpan. The best way to avoid a migraine and turning into a blithering nut who might very well fall over is to limit my duration of standing. I can stand for a few minutes, sit down for a few minutes, then repeat. But, if I try to pretend like I can put together a casserole and throw it in the oven all in one go (for a total of 30 minutes standing), that easily preventable headache/temporary brain death is now something that I have to suffer through for the rest of the day, as if just existing isn’t difficult enough.
What I’m saying is POTS is just as bad as heart failure. I couldn’t even tell the difference (until I died). Those of you with POTS, the next time someone refers to your condition as “benign”, tell them to go drop trou, then sit on a cactus.
Harpy is bored. She isn’t good at entertaining herself. I guess I wouldn’t know how either if I hadn’t learned out of necessity. MC is working the entire week with today, Wednesday, and Friday being rehab days. On those days, he generally doesn’t walk in the door until 10:30 pm. That’s three days this week that Harpy will ask me if I want to go do something. His problem becomes my problem. I’m expected to entertain her.
“Doesn’t staying in the house all of the time bother you?”
Eh, it doesn’t bother me as much as dealing with the consequences of overspending my sporks. Spoonies, meet Sporkie. Heyo!
Yes, I want to go do something (admittedly not with her). No, I don’t feel like doing something. Does that even make sense? To explain my disastrous diseases to anyone, I oversimplify because no one has time for the details. Either that, or no one wants to listen to me yammer on for an hour about symptoms and the modifications I’ve had to make in order to stay home and not be stuck in a hospital.
I poop a lot, I get dizzy, my kidneys are free loaders, and I walk funny. One hour condensed into five seconds.
Saying, “Sorry, I can’t go with you” should be enough. But it isn’t. I mean, fuck, this time I have a feeding tube and I’m dragging an oxygen concentrator/tanks around with me, yet my lack of desire to go sniff the allergenic flowers at the greenhouse is because I have an attitude problem. Whatever (precisely what a person with an attitude problem might say).
The best way to deal with her kind is to not react. Let it roll right off of the Harpy Scotch guard I shower in several times a day (also known as reading Harry Potter). Being non-reactive is easy. Being non-reactive and actually not being bothered by all of the things she says is not. Weirdly enough, I’m not bothered. At most, I’m annoyed that she keeps bugging me. This is subject to change. ‘Tis the week of PMS, after all.
This is going to be a long week.