On the good days, I totally get what's going on. I'm clearing my physical body of past, much as I cleared my emotional and mental bodies the past few years. But whereas clearing the mental and emotional bodies was metaphorically bloody and reeking of death, clearing the physical body actually is these things.
On the bad days I'm just dying, just sick and in pain and alone and bewildered. I do my best to follow Life's prompts, but it's so hard, because all the animal wants is to stop the pain, but what stops the pain is also what inevitably prolongs it. The road to wellness isn't paved with ibuprofin and cake and mast*rbation and PT burgers with spicy fries. Though I know I'm not alone when I shout out: yo, but it should be.
On the good days, I acknowledge how lucky I am to be alone, that the only beings I have around me are absolutely necessary to what is going on. There are the kitties of course, and their continuous heartbeat of Yes, a warm snuggle, raspy tongue and soft fur, goofy grins and squealy squeaks. And lightbeams of friendship here and there like streetlamps at foggy midnight. There's the hilarious coworker, who always keeps things light and breezy. And the one holistic practitioner who has been able to help, who uses this suspicious little Russian tech device that emits electrical waves (that I utterly don't believe in but which continues to be the only thing that in less than an hour nullifies back pain so excruciating I could barely get out of bed to get to the treatment).
On the bad days, I'm just a crazy anti-social hag who is a functional shut-in with an ever burgeoning collection of cats.
On the good days, I am in awe of how Life has turned every other single aspect of living into a an even-keeled hum of efficiency, so that all of my energy is freed to turn and apply itself to clearing my physical body of Not True.
On the bad days I'm just mentally ill and ascribing mythic curlicues to the normal falling apart of an aging human body.
On good days, I find that it continues to be curious that, much like the clearing of emotional and mental past, Life refuses to allow me to turn over control to anyone outside of me, that it continues to bend and break me into surrender to itself. Much like Jed and David and my sister were able to lend some assistance, but only some, Life brings me folks who can help for a portion of it, and then they are removed. There are sharp perimeters as to how close I can allow a healer or helper in, and if I fall, yet again, into the victim or helpless trap, or even the seemingly harmless friend or companion zone, Life whooshes the person away faster than I can say "boohoo". This continues to be a solo gig, period, end of discussion.
On bad days, when nerve torching pain is cycling through upper back and neck and low back and coccyx and knee and jaw, all I want to do is break out the remainder of the pain meds leftover from last month's surgery, drift off to lalaland and just not come back. Or when my belly is bloated to pregnancy size, my eyelids swollen and red, everything and I do mean everything hella itchy (all apparently from the massive fungal infection that has taken over my system from the copious amounts of sugar, fruit, and baked goods I've consumed the past year, not to mention the drugs and anesthesia shunted in via IV during surgery), I see that I am a caterpillar that has metamorphosed, not into a butterfly but into a giant yeast-engorged tick.
I know that whether I believe a day to be "good" or "bad", the only way through this is to face it, all of it. And that the goal is not to make the pain stop, but to see what happens when I acknowledge the fact that it isn't the pain that hurts, but my reaction to it. (At least I'm pretty sure this is the deal. I never seem to know til it's on me, and right now the only thing I know is on me is this floor to ceiling rash.)
Last winter, descending into cubicleland, pushing away from the shore of everything and everyone I knew felt as if I were finally allowing hell to take me, and the emotional and mental pain, and my screaming shrieking reaction to it eventually burned out my resistance to fighting. And instead of using all of my energy to fight my way out of hell, I turned it around and began using it to make my stay there more fun, more comfortable, to enjoy the electrifying scenery, the toasty ambiance, the frisky indigenous population.
This whole physical thing I'm going thru is probably pretty much the same deal. I'm still mostly in the shrieking and screaming stage, but little glimmers of Yes make themselves known. The whole cancer thing turned out to be a lot of fun, so the back pain and candida ride will most likely soon show their let-the-good-times-roll reality as well.
Okay. Enough. Time to go lay in the sun with kitties.
And scratch some stuff. Dang I'm itchy . . .