Illness Brings Out the Worst, Doesn't It
If I am still, the ache is less. (If I take ibuprofen or vicodin, it's less, too.) I wake up in the morning with very little ache and go to bed with quite a bit of ache. So I don't do things. I avoid unloading the dishwasher because I have to reach up to put the coffee mugs on the shelf and that might make the ache worse. I don't know that it does. And Bob can tell you I hate to unload the dishwasher anyway, so this is a self-serving avoidance. I don't take out the garbage much anymore because lifting the bag might make me ache worse. I could experiment and see what does and doesn't make me ache, but the downside to that is obvious.
Periodically I decide I am going to be stoic and do the things I normally do, only with naps. I don't announce this because, well, announcing it doesn't seem very stoic, does it, and besides, I haven't admitted to anyone that I'm wimping around. This morning I unloaded the dishwasher and took out the garbage. The problem is, now I want a medal for being stoic. But since I haven't told anyone I'm being stoic, and in fact, haven't even told them that I think I might ache more if I do these things, and since, really, unloading the dishwasher isn't normally a heroic task, chances are Bob will not come home, look at me with admiring eyes and compliment me on my strength of character.
By tonight, I'll have gotten over my stoicism anyway. And I'll be back to quietly avoiding things I think might possibly cause me discomfort in some way.
And since we've gotten eight inches of snow in the last twenty-four hours, that includes almost any task that involves leaving the house. I'm pretty sure cold makes me ache.