I hate getting to the end of the day, and realizing I honestly can't remember the beginning of it. I know I did stuff today. I'm sure of it. I had to have. But here I am, nearing bedtime, with no clue how I got here. I don't know whether to blame advancing age, fatigue, chronic illness, or just plain forgetfulness for getting me into this predicament.
One of my stated goals for writing every night was to improve my memory. (I remember saying that much, at least.) For a while, it was really doing me some good. I was able to pull out long-buried scenes from my youth, to document for posterity. And it even seemed to be helping me absorb every single day, to slow it down and pick it apart before each night came to a close. I felt like I was actually living, not just letting time slip by unnoticed. But something has changed. I don't know whether it's the lupus itself, or merely the knowledge that things are somewhat broken inside me. I may have given myself permission to feel the pain, and to feel the effects on my conscious mind as well. I often wonder whether that is why things seem so much worse than when I was fighting an unknown enemy, trying to pretend I was still the smart and self-sufficient woman I told myself that I was. I feel much less so now. It's a hard adjustment to make, recognizing that all those things I tried to hide and power through were actually real symptoms, not just my imagination. I almost think that all the medications and supplements I'm taking are making things a little worse, on the way to making things better. At least I hope that "better" is at the end of this ride. The status quo is unacceptable and unbearable.
I'm am painfully aware of one activity that we did today. With the stated goal of pricing and comparison shopping for an electric lawn mower (so that I have a hope of ever using one again, that won't be too heavy and shake the crap out of my sensitive hands), we went to a couple big box stores. And damned if we didn't walk in through the garden centers each time. The corner of the yard, where we put in all the lilacs and other perennials, is still in the process of being turned over. We're digging up the grass in a big section (I'm not doing the digging part), and replacing it with flowers and shrubs. So today we ended up with two different cartfuls of flowers, plus a couple flowering shrubs (this time my spirea was pink). This meant we had to dig up another big section of grass, shake out the dirt from the roots, and plant what we could place in the earth that we turned over. A delphinium, red yarrow, day lily, rosemary, marigolds, dianthus, and snapdragon later, we called it quits. I had sat out in the sun much longer than I was supposed to, with only half of my time covered by a big sun hat. There is still dirt under my nails, and I can barely take a breath without my lungs aching. But four different neighbors stopped to chat about it, including one elderly lady who only stopped long enough to say she was so glad to see us working in the yard, and that she absolutely loved flowers. That corner is going to be awash in them very soon. Most of them will fill in and come back year after year. That's what I needed. Something that will take care of itself. Because the way I'm feeling these days, it's getting increasingly difficult for me to picture being able to take active care of the Park like I used to.
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