I’ve been forced to retreat to bed the last day or so with a water infection combined with a viral URTI. I’m talking like Donald Duck and even my walking gets affected by its reduction to to/from the toilet with zimmer frame. You would think, after a year spent far more in bed than anyone would like, and with myriad limitations, I would be used to how this feels, patient and calm, peaceful and sure. But it is not so.
I have certainly grown, because I’ve been forced to, not because I am especially good at it, in patience, and in the peace that comes from knowing I am right where I should be in God’s will for my life. But I am far, far from where I should be. I doubt myself. I disbelieve my need to be in bed. I want to be doing. I start using that word “should” a lot and endless “I’m sorry”s. There may be some superwoman who can write job application forms and blog posts and make financial decisions when all the air spaces in her head are full of snot, but she is not me.
I AM affected more by simple infections these days.
I DO have a huge dip in energy after “big” things – and our Saturday night celebration was a “big” thing.
The two together, and I am either in bed or horizontal in front of the tennis on the television, finally being still before the Lord, catching up on a bit of reading (‘A new name’ by Emma Scrivener – really highly recommended) and accepting that I AM ill and can’t do any more.
What I had planned to do during this stretch of “a year ago I was in hospital” was try and talk about what it was really like, the stuff I hold back, telling amusing anecdotes of wandering ladies and the triumphs of standing and showers, leaving out the painful undignified stuff. I’ll do that another time.