They say that moving is somewhat stressful - akin to being held responsible for the annihilation of an entire race - or to be less hyperbolic, the extermination of a large proportion of one. And I can see why.
It's not even as if the address here is changing - I'm just moving from dual-floor living to a downstairs existence - but it's stressful nevertheless. I woke this morning to howling muscles, a missing toenail and blood-encrusted pinkie finger. Not exactly unusual for an MS victim and in the weirdest sense possible I was rather pleased that the roots were not relevant to the condition for once.
Broadly speaking, the move has entailed moving lots of things from various points upstairs to chaotic points downstairs, and vice versa - all with stairs occupying the middle ground. Given that my increasing difficulty with a staircase is one of the key prompts behind the move in the first pace, you might begin to understand how the stress-ometer's needle has spent a lot of the last 48 hours bent almost double.
Not that there hasn't been a few minutes here and there to pore through the detritus of the move and locate a few little - very little - gems that it has brought to light. Not all of you will appreciate the near-irony of the find, but the Death of Rats is now sitting proudly at the end of my new shelving down here in the living-come-bedroom-come-workroom. Given that he's accompanied by Death himself, Death on Binky and Gaspode, a few of you might understand the poignancy of his re-discovery.With the emphasis on 'disc', of course.
I've even located some stories I wrote many years ago when life was so much easier. There's one ratty school exercise book with the title 'The Alley Kids' which I penned when my age was still in single digits. And judging by the handwriting, when my ability to use a pen was with a single digit.
On the less fun side, I even hung a new door yesterday - probably my least favourite DIY task in all existence. But mostly it has been physical shifting of items from one room to another - and that's where the truth behind MS comes into play. You need to plan ahead because physical tiredness will take its toll sooner or later - dependent on the level of the illness. You know that at some point the legs (if you're fortunate enough to have any mobility left) will give way and you will be reduced to a quite literal crawl. I will try very hard to remember that when I next put up shelves and leave setting out my book collection on them to when I lose my leg-motive ability. Believe it or not I actually forgot that even standing, let alone lifting and setting things on shelves, would prove impossible... There's always tomorrow of course - always assuming a wardrobe doesn't fall on me.
Oh well, we live and learn (mainly learn new swear words in that instance).
At least most of the nasty stuff has been done now (including re-rooming two wardrobes that weigh approximately the same as a small family cat - always assuming you're mega-rich and everyone in your household drives either a Rolls Royce or a Churchill tank).
I've been writing this whilst sitting at my little desk (in its new location, of course) and letting my legs recover sufficiently for one more attack at furnishing, fittings and other f-words (and believe me, the swear jar is overflowing - I'd probably be cursing even more if I hadn't realised that needs shifting too at some point). So... I guess prevarication will get me nowhere and there's a shelf that needs liberating from its fixings... and apparently a table that needs re-assembling... and a rug that needs rolling up... oh, and moving from where it is to where it was,,, and a cupboard needs to have a new door hinge fitted... and... and where's the f*"!ing swear jar gone?
No comments:
Post a Comment