Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
As I get older, I find myself constantly in a battle launched at me by both my osteo and rheumatoid arthritis. When cold, my hands (but also hip, knees, feet…well, all of me actually) find an intense, aching pain deep in my bones. When it’s hot, my joints swell and burn like I’ve got my own internal furnace. Add to this the sharp, stabbing pains that come on any time of year, where it feels like someone is thrusting a knife into me and twisting it aggressively, and you get the picture.
I generally cope, taking minimal medication. My issue is not really the pain itself, but everything it stops me from doing. It creates considerable fatigue, and when I’m forced to lie down, I imagine all those wretched little pain receptors living, rent-free like squatters in my body. For some reason, they are a dung-brown colour in my imagination, and between bouts of bare-knuckle fighting where they punch each other black and blue, I see them stretched out on cushioned loungers. Unlike myself, they are snoring and farting loudly, their slack jaws working endlessly as they dream of their next battle.
I’ve never enjoyed housework (who in their right mind does?) but I understand the deep satisfaction gained from a clean kitchen or walking into a freshly hoovered and dusted room, and there’s the rub! Not only do I no longer have the dexterity or strength in my hands that I used to have, but gripping the handles of mops and hoovers, which require pushing and pulling, is becoming impossible.
Of course, I’ve done everything I can to help myself, like buying new lightweight appliances but they don’t solve the problem. It seems the lighter they are, the more inefficient they become. My old Dyson Animal vacuum cleaner literally lifted the carpets, whilst my lightweight stick wand leaves tonnes of debris. The fact that you needed to be a bodybuilder to haul it around was by the by.
Years ago, when I was working full-time in education, I took the plunge and hired a cleaner. My mother was appalled at this, but as I was finding it difficult to juggle home and work, it made sense. I found my cleaning angel through a colleague, and she was a Polish lady (Anya) whose work ethic was second to none. She was scrupulously honest, utterly reliable and, frankly, the best person to have had in my life at that time.
She helped me in ways I could never have imagined, and walking into my house on a day when she’d been in never ceased to thrill me. Anya was the kind of lady who actually dusted behind the pictures and regularly removed everything from my cupboards to clean and tidy them without ever being asked. She was so good that by the time I left London (we wept when we said goodbye), she had taken over the whole street, working for most of my neighbours as well.
What I wouldn’t give for an Anya now as I struggle to complete even basic housework tasks, where I have had to form personal relationships with my dust to be at peace. Of course, I have friends who offer to come in and do some bits, but I’m tenaciously stubborn on that front and cling desperately to my warped view of independence. I just feel it’s wrong, when they have their own homes to slavishly clean, that they should do mine, whilst I just sit there like lady muck. Even when Anya came in all those years ago, we agreed I was always to be out. Otherwise, I would simply join her.
It took me well over a year to accept I had paid someone to keep the house, as I would rush around with the hoover on the morning she was coming and only stop scrubbing the sink seconds before she let herself in. Thankfully, she was quite firm with me and over time, I relinquished the position to her willingly, and we were both happy.
Now it seems I am destined to name and greet my spiders like pets, make pictures from their cobwebs that I mournfully stare at, as I lay in my bed or long wistfully for the times when, with the thin spring sunshine creeping through the shutters, I would set about with a bucket and a damp cloth to clean paintwork, wipe down skirting boards and banish the dust from every surface.
Strange to think that I could miss such a task, but I do, not least because of the knowledge that should I even manage to get myself down and face to face with dusty corners, I might never be able to get up again, unaided. It would be in the papers for my neighbours to read and tut about: “Dead woman eaten by two starving Dachshunds as she was found stuck between the sofa and bay window!”
No, ruefully, my spring cleaning days are over. Hours spent on hands and knees are a distant memory, so as I sigh deeply and put a comforting hand out to stroke a rounded Dachshund tummy, I’ll just have to accept my lot, pop the kettle on and cut another slice of cake I baked that morning, ruminating on that it’s a hard life!
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.