Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
As I sat in my garden with a cup of home-grown lemon verbena tea this morning, I reflected on my weekend so far. Whenever I wake up to the sunshine smiling through my bedroom window, I feel a burst of unbridled joy. Of course, I haven’t risked moving yet.
The pain gremlins are still in ‘sleep mode’ and I’m aware that unless I wake them up very gently, slowly stroking their ugly, little, barbed heads, they’ll make me pay for it for the rest of the day. But, these days, we’ve become accustomed to each other and I have an acute sense of how not to make them angry.
It’s at this moment when I first wiggle my toes that I yearn to stretch. Now, to some people this will seem strange. But to others, they’ll be nodding with pursed lips, this shared feeling all too well understood.
Oh, how I long to arch my back. I crave the feeling of the endorphins kicking in as every limb, muscle, and fibre of my body is pushed to its absolute limit, held for just a few seconds, and then released in a sense of euphoric relaxation, a kind of strangled moan testament to my extreme pleasure. Bliss! Except that these days, it’s not to be.
No matter how much I want to, I must suppress the urge. We all recognise that a morning stretch is nature’s way of preparing our bodies for movement and inducing flexibility. But, sadly, with the conditions I now have, I’ve learned the hard way that the simple act of a morning stretch can induce serious pain and cause injury, rather than help relieve it.
If you’ve been there, you’ll know what I’m talking about. At the optimal moment of your stretch, there’s a shift. It feels like tearing silk – the fibres rip and break as you feel the searing, hot pain too late to prevent it and your body tears and fails.
Of course, the very nature of my condition means that routine exercise and gentle stretching is absolutely essential to maintaining movement, but the key is in the word ‘gentle’! And oh how I miss that moment in the morning. Like a supine cat, eyes tightly shut and limbs pushed as far as they can go, each toe on the pad separates as the claws slowly extend and the whole body tingles with pleasure. But, no more.
With great care, I tenderly bring my body to life. When I’m ready, I shift my weight to the edge of the bed and risk standing so that my day can begin.
Yesterday was a really lovely day. I attended a 21st birthday party in the garden next door. I thoroughly enjoyed myself as good company, good food, and good weather meant everyone could relax, kick back, laugh, chat, and sip Pimm’s. Knowing that my doglets were safe next door and that I could pop back at a moments notice to check on them meant that, unlike so often, I could properly relax.
Much later, I lay in bed and drifted off to the quiet, cheerful chatter coming in through my bedroom window as, adults now in bed, the teens sat around a firepit in the darkness, fairy lights twinkling, their laughter and pleasure infectious.
However, today is a different story and the jobs I’ve put off over the weekend are calling me.
Shiba Inu dogs pelt. As they have double coats designed for Japanese snow and ice, they shed their undercoat and small tufts of fur break through to the surface – they’re left looking like they’ve been attacked by moths.
This is supposed to happen twice a year. It’s in all the breed books and highlighted on all the dog sites, but what nobody tells you is that, yes, while they do pelt twice a year, it’s twice a year for six months at a time! True, there are times when it’s worse than others but, generally, if you’re a Shiba owner you’ll spend your whole life under mounds of floof, constantly picking up tufts and hoovering not once, but twice a day.
Even then, just as I pop the hoover back into the cupboard under the stairs, my dog Arthur will stand, stretch a leg, wriggle his bottom, and shake. He’ll then deposit two perfect tufts onto the carpet that I’ve just hoovered and, let’s not forget, I don’t have one Shiba – I have two!
The issue for me is the stairs. For some reason, it’s so much harder to remove the floof out of the carpet on the stairs. I’ve bought three different vacuum cleaners but have found them all absolutely useless. The only thing that really works is a stiff brush, a hair removing glove, a bowl of warm, disinfected water, and a lot of welly – something that the rheumatoid arthritis and osteoarthritis in my hands makes both painful and difficult.
I have very little strength in my hands now. My fingers and wrists are stiff, swollen, and generally really miserable. And, as the action requires repetitive, sustained vigour, in truth, I don’t do it anywhere near as often as I should. Unlike the other carpets in the house, the stairs get once a week if they’re lucky and I dread it, as it often reduces me to tears.
That said, the satisfaction once accomplished is as good as that stretch I’m missing. So, today, when I’ve finished writing this, I’ll go into battle. Though Ila is eyeing me from the doorway as she contemplates depositing another tuft in the hallway…
Follow up
Well, it’s taken me just over an hour but the stairs and landings are done!
Thankfully, I have a rather silly sense of humour. This was good because as I lowered myself onto my bottom on the top landing with my gloves on and water bowl at the ready, I went to pick up the stiff brush and my hands failed me. As I tried to grip and pick up the brush, my hand malfunctioned and it flipped out of my hand and shot off – it bounced right down the full flight of stairs that I’d just so carefully climbed.
Looking at it as it hit the hallway, I saw Ila’s little face peep around the corner, head tilted to one side, and it made me laugh.
That laughter saw me through the whole ordeal which means that now I can treat myself to another cup of tea and possibly, later on, an extra roast potato!
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