The best things to come out of Cleveland have been Michael Symon's restaurants and (dare I say) Howard the Duck. The upcoming Republican Convention is not going to add to that list. Okay, maybe Lebron James and the Cavaliers. Maybe.
The last few weeks have been so tiring I could scream. This is despite the weekly Vitamin D I have been faithfully taking. The rheumatologist has me back on B-12, but even that is not making a dent in this physical fog. Even tai chi is taking too much effort. Lately I've been napping away half the day and then going to bed early.
The rheumatologist, in addition to tweaking medication instructions, also recommended some light aerobic exercise and a daily walk in the sun (excluding midday). I had let my daily walks fall by the wayside as the weather got colder and the fibro flares got more vicious, so I was very happy to get back on track at the doctor's suggestion.
This was not an easy thing to do, however, as I am apparently out of practice, but I'll keep at it. It's just that after a good walk, my back sets up a protest of great magnitude, the kind that sends one to bed with a bottle of Advil, a handful of muscle relaxers and a box of tissues to mop up the tears. Part of that may be that I walked in quite perfect weather and kept walking, and I suspect I covered a pretty good distance, and this, my friends, constitutes overdoing. I never learn, although my pace is pretty slow. My power walking days are long over, but even a neighborhood stroll has to be carefully planned.
So I walked and kvetched, but I did get that nice photo of the blue pinwheel garden in Courthouse Square, reminding folks that April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month, as well as a street photo celebrating Spanish moss.
Officially speaking fibromyalgia sucks. Lately I've developed a weakness in my arms and hands, making it difficult to knit, type, and scroll an iPhone - my hand and arm shake, and I end up clicking on unintended links or missing keyboard letters. When I type a blog post - or anything, actually - I end up having to constantly erase and correct. Then I'm also in the midst of a memory fog, unable to recall words or names when I need them as part of a conversation. This time it is particularly bad, scary bad, the type of bad that makes you think senile dementia is right around the corner.
When I have good days, I want to enjoy them. I want to celebrate their existence. But that joy is tempered by the knowledge that the bad days are going to reappear. Always, no exceptions. And that's where the depression comes from. That plus the loss of loved ones, in my family and the families of people I care for.
So I felt well enough to do some cooking, the first time in a long time, but I'm still too tired and my hands too shaky to start that typing.