Fresh Out of Spoons
This blog entry is three days late. But, you know, who’s counting? I started the blog back in June to talk about what the world is like through my chronic-pain/ chronic-illness lens. I danced around all of that for weeks (totally distracted by the Dobbs decision, so I think that’s reasonable), but I finally got into it last week and got some truly lovely responses that have meant so much to me. Thanks for reading.
I have a good excuse for being late. I had an MRI on my lumbar spine Monday morning, about 6 hours after my much-delayed flight home from San Francisco landed. My new pain doc thought it would be useful to get an MRI, not only because we need to know why the pain there is so very constant and throbbing and exhausting, but also to see if we could catch why my feet get heavy and useless on airplane trips. I don’t imagine we’ll learn anything, because I’m cynical like that, but it’s worth a shot right? I already hit my deductible for the year, so we’re all good.
If you’ve never had an MRI, congratulations. There’s nothing to say for the experience other than that it sucks, the tube is ridiculously small, and the sounds seem unnecessarily loud. You’re expected to lay perfectly still for some ponderous amount of time that will presumably be shorter the better you are at not moving, but is going to be at least 30 minutes in a white plastic coffin on a barely cushioned bench. It’s like the very opposite of meditation, where you try to still your mind and body to go inward to make more space for clarity and enlightenment. In an MRI machine, you have to still your mind and body to go inward and escape the incredibly bad tweaker of a DJ who has you as the sole focus of his evil master plans. At one point, the throbbing, repetitive sound from the machine sounded like a robotic voice that was either saying, “Ball. Park. Ball. Park.” or “Hot. Dog. Hot. Dog.” and I realized I forgot to eat breakfast. When the disembodied human voice of the MRI tech busted in to the speakers to tell me there were only two more images to go, I sincerely felt like I was high (I wasn’t. Note to self — it probably would have helped if I was).
So, yeah, post-vacation, post-flight, post-MRI, I’m one tired spoonie. For those of you who haven’t heard the word before, a “spoonie” is a person with a limited number of spoons to give, a la the brilliant Christine Miserandino’s Spoon Theory. In spoon theory, a healthy person has an essentially unlimited amount of energy or “spoons” to expend on any given day, but a person with a chronic illness has a limited amount and when they’re gone, they’re just gone. Zero. Empty. No pushing through — faking it is not an option. So, you have to map out your days and your activities really carefully so you don’t crash in an unsafe place or end up in the ER or some other untoward event. (For the hyper-literate among you, my apologies. I’m about to torture the SHIT out of this metaphor.)
For example, on an average day, let’s say I have about 15 spoons, approximately one per waking hour. I’m a very, very bad sleeper and I often wake up in pain and have to spend a few minutes organizing all my bones and convincing myself to get out of bed. I’ll have to stretch and sometimes soak in the hot water of a shower to get dressed. All that costs at least one spoon, and sometimes after a really hard night, two. After I’m dressed, I get the kids up and dressed, fed, and out the door, walk the dog and get ready to work and that all takes at least one and depending on the day, the camp schedule, and the relative availability of clean dishes, sometimes two more spoons. Maybe I have a morning conference call with a client who is giving some constructive but challenging feedback, so that’s an extra spoon lost to my gritted jaw muscles and churning stomach. When I’m just working, maybe writing a discussion guide that requires research and thought, if I get in writing flow and forget to move around and get up and walk then when I emerge from the fog, that’s another couple extra spoons. So, by noon on a relatively “normal” day I’ve already spent about half of my spoons. That’s where I have to start making choices.
Maybe I have plans to meet a friend out for dinner, an activity that I’ll enjoy, but that will cost at least two spoons because it will be late in the day so my body will be tired already, it will likely involve some standing and waiting, and then at least an hour in an uncomfortable chair. That‘ll be after all the kid afternoon activities, including making sure they’re fed, that we’ve had at least one meaningful conversation that doesn’t include a fight over screen time, and any kid-related logistics like carpool. One spoon at least, more if I’m driving carpool. And somewhere in there, I have to get some exercise and do my physical therapy, which costs at least one spoon a day but I have to do in order to maintain that lovely 15 spoons to start from. So, by noon I’ve likely already spent six-seven spoons and I want to save at least four spoons for the evening for parenting and my own mental health and happiness, and that means at best I have to figure out how to get through five hours of work with a scant four spoons to spend.
If you’re thinking, is this a blog about spoons or math or what, you’re starting to get it. What it’s about is explaining that I have to spend an inordinate amount of time, every single day, carefully prioritizing my energy and time. And if I bend funny or step on a Lego or get hit in the head with a soccer ball or have a doctor’s appointment or whatever, all the best laid plans go to hell and my husband has to cover or the kids miss soccer or I have to bail on another plan with a friend who brings me joy or I can’t sleep at all because it hurts too much and the cycle continues.
Spoon theory helps me understand living in a body with real limitations, and why not only am I physically unable to mind-over-matter my way out of the pain, but if I do, I’ll wake up tomorrow at a deficit and then everyone in my life suffers.
Anyway, that’s why this blog is “late” (I know nobody cares but me but I’m a Virgo so there you go). Since flying back from my fabulous trip to San Francisco, I have been plum out of spoons. I can’t complain. Really, this isn’t a “first-world problems” sort of humble brag. I can’t complain because I had a fabulous, life-enriching, soul-enhancing trip to see old friends in a beautiful place, eat good food, and listen to the ocean. I spent all of my spoons every day in the best possible ways, driving to see people, sitting in horrid chairs in charming cafes, walking slowly while window shopping and chatting, all the best stuff of life.
I guess the point is that spoons are spoons, for good or for bad, and I wish mine weren’t so limited. If my blog is late, or if I have to cancel our coffee date, or take a day or two to respond, now you know why.
