Friday's post was cheerful when I made an announcement that really is, in reality, not cheerful at all. It's downright frightening.
The following days I've struggled to hold onto that cheerfulness. Grasped it with determination. Hung on with every bit of resolve I have.
Worst case scenarios have played in my head as I shout back that there has to be some benign, reasonable explanation for the fact that my hands don't seem to want to grasp anything. There's a reason why they inexplicably and suddenly go numb or tingly, and tired from tasks that I used to preform with ease. There is possibly some reasonable explanation that is not going to change my life, and so I can't let anxiety take over. I mean, let's just be realistic here.
Last night Hubs looked at me while we watched a movie, his brow furrowed.
"Are you okay?"
I was furiously massaging my right hand, hoping that somehow there was just a muscle knot or something in there, because waves of deep aching pain were coursing through it. Maybe I laid funny and something was being pinched.
There were no muscle knots. My left hand began to join my right and there I sat, looking at these two throbbing limbs that seemed as if they had taken on a life of their own.
"Are your hands tingling?" he looked concerned.
"I'm okay," I lied. I've been lying all along. I'm not okay. Slowly, fear is creeping in. I've fought to keep it at bay all weekend, but each time my fingers go numb or tired for no apparent real reason, it chips away at the wall of resolve I have. Every now and then terror slips in, reminding me of the doctor's words and whispering "well you better hope that's all it is". I keep telling myself that it's nothing to worry about; there's a perfectly reasonable, non-life-changing explanation. It's not working.
Jake knows something is wrong. We haven't told him, but every now and then he runs up and gives me an extra hug or kiss on the cheek. He's been watching me carefully. I'm afraid to tell him; to worry him about me when he lost a close friend to cancer mere months ago. Thinking that Mom is sick and sort of scared would put him in a complete panic. So instead I smile and be cheerful, and when he points out that I'm having trouble picking up the tiny shards of beach glass this afternoon, I make a joke. He laughs that it must be the Motrin I took.
He doesn't know I quit taking Motrin days ago.
As I plodded through blogs this morning, I came upon this article at Coffee Spaz. Almost as if she had posted it just for me, I read about letting go the illusion of control on your life and controlling only what you can.
I retreated to the shower where, for the first time since Friday, I could cry where nobody could see.
I can't control whatever it is that's happening to me, this I know all too well.
I CAN control whether or not I let it swallow me. Minute by minute I'm wavering on that tight rope between resolve to keep going or just completely falling apart, it suddenly was as if someone just handed me an umbrella to keep my balance. The right words at exactly the right time. I've had my weekend of wallowing. Now the time has come where I need to get a grip; not with my failing hands, but my head. I'll be damned if I'm going to allow this to reduce me to an anxiety ridden heap while I wait and hope that it's nothing big and scary.
I'll get to the other side of that tight rope. If not for me, for Hubs and Jake.
Especially for Hubs and Jake.