(Part of) a day in the life...
I write these bits and pieces because I want to fill out, flesh out, what it means to be -- well, any of the parts that make up me, anyway. In this case, there is relevance to my physical condition; what it means to be fibromyalgic, disabled, living with an invisible illness, managing all of that in a balanced way.
Please note I haven't had time to review and edit this. I am going to bed.
***
Yesterday I was scheduled to work 11-5pm. At least it was long enough a shift to allow a break -- usually I wander around the mall (at the end of which is the camera shop that employs me) and window-shop just to get my mind off the sales floor for a bit. I look at the kitsch in Hallmark and imagine how I'm going to decorate my someday dream-home (which will be small and comfortable and easy to care for). I browse through the clearance racks at Dots -- seriously, nice work pants for $5! -- or talk to the people in the jewelry shops and food places who know us fairly well. I will admit to having hobbled down to the Bon-Ton one time and lay on the sample Sertas.
I was working with my manager that afternoon. I get along fairly well with her, although she has her faults, just as any other human person. She had called me in a panic that morning; our alarm codes were all changed recently, and she needed mine, rightnow, and after I read it to her she belted, "I'll call you back later" and hung up. Apparently the alarm went off for a half hour, and the security guards and police were there, and the alarm company refused to turn the alarm off until she told them her alarm code -- which she didn't have -- even as she offered to prove her identity.
She was, understandably, flustered.
But the day went fairly well otherwise, very steady, and the customers were good. (Retail folks know: there are Good Customers, who are open and amicable but don't pry, who are patient and cooperative -- and there are Bad Customers, who put you in a sour mood, because they don't see themselves as working with you, but against you, no matter which position you see yourself occupying.)
I took one half of a painkiller before leaving for work, and another half two hours later, maybe half after noon. I took my midday medications around two-thirty. And maybe an hour later, I went on break.
When I returned, I had to jump right into things; my manager had three people to be helped and only one of her. And the amount of customers only grew. It was a blur for the following hour; I was juggling at least two customers at any one time. Maybe ten minutes before five, as I was talking to a twenty-something couple who had just walked in to look at digital SLRs, the older couple behind them insisted that they were "just" there to pick up -- what, photos, a warehouse order? Those are quick to take care of -- no -- a camera. And I've learned as much in my time here: there is no such thing as a quick camera sale. We have a bundle of free crap, and some other valuable extras, that we have to explain to the customer. We may be a nationwide corporation, but we operate like a mom-n-pop shop; we explain the basics of working the camera for folks who don't already have a handle on it, for instance. You don't get that at Wal-Mart.
Anyway -- they were obviously not happy to be waiting in line, so I left this couple handling two entry level SLRs at the front of the store to run back and grab everything they were picking up -- which was not simply a camera. It was a printer, and a package of memory cards, and a bag, and a host of other accessories. And I started to wrap up the sale, explaining the Bundle of Free Crap to them, when one of my coworkers walked in. I called him over and handed the older couple off to him, asking him to explain everything to them and ring the sale up, saying -- out loud -- "I do have two SLRs out over here!"
I was flustered too.
The young couple was, in fact, a young family. It was their first time out with their ten-day-old son. He must have gone through four or five cycles of sleep and wake in his time there. They handled it exceptionally, for it being their first time; they would trade off holding him, or feeding him, or rocking him, while the other partner was talking to me. They were very gracious, and the sort of customer who is easy to talk to. It was obvious the husband was more invested in the decision than the wife (who, being a new mother, was also exhausted; he didn't seem to understand why she kept going to sit down at the print bar) although they were both interested.
They ended up buying the Nikon D40, which is being cleared out -- photography, just like fashion, has a spring line that pushes out the last season's worth of product -- and the zoom lens. I went through everything they would need (bag, memory card, filters...) with them, explaining it to them the whole way. At one point, my manager, who was getting her things together to leave -- it being well after five at this point -- teases me about my husband surely wondering where the hell I was. I had been avoiding saying anything, even though it had been on my mind the whole time, because you could tell these two were the sorts of people who would feel bad for it -- and yes, they did.
I explained the damage protection and the rewards club; I explained the Bundle of Free Crap item by item; I pulled together the financing paperwork and called it in; I bragged about our brand new lab (which comes bundled with higher expectations for certain photofinishing products)... I don't know how many customers had come and gone in that time, but it was a lot, and they were, eventually, the only ones left. My manager had gone. My friend/coworker/replacement was cleaning up the mess inevitably left when we get slammed like that, and don't have the time to put everything neatly in its proper spot.
They left, happy, and thanking me profusely, around six-thirty. And once they were out of sight, my entire body fell slack, and I let out a long sigh. And I noticed --
It had been at least six hours since I had taken a the medicine I normally take every two.
-- I felt the pain suddenly. I hadn't even noticed, not that entire time.
And here's the thing. There are a lot of times when I don't notice the pain. That was my state for basically the entirety of my childhood. I had no reason to believe otherwise, so I learned to categorize how I felt as normal, because there was no outward indication that it wasn't.
But when I finally stop doing, and let myself just be, the pain makes itself apparent, bit by bit.
That's the problem with my early years. I never let myself stop. I shouldn't have to stop, was my unconscious thought process, because there's nothing abnormal going on to make me have to stop. And so I would force myself forward, no matter what. Even when I was sick. Even when I felt miserable.
And here's another thing. I missed some ungodly amount of school days every year, from pre-K to graduation. But that doesn't mean that I wasn't pushing myself to continue, attending school when I was sick and sapped, when I should have been home by any reasonable measure. It's just that I was in such a condition as to be missing that much school even while I was putting forth such greater effort than most of my peers, even the most driven of them.
Enough of those other things.
I made my way to the back, where I kept my belongings, and called my husband to apologize. And after a quick chat with friend/coworker, I left for home.
OK: here's one last thing.
Even after resting my tired body for the remainder of the day, and heading to bed early, and rolling out of bed a bit late -- even after my husband helped me wash myself in the shower this morning -- even after the painkillers --
I felt awful today. The first words I heard as I walked into work today were "You look tired."
And I put on makeup today. For the first time in weeks. Even with three types of concealer over the dark circles under my eyes, I managed to look significantly worse than usual, in terms of physical condition.
I was slow and sluggish. I slurred when I spoke (quietly). I shuffled instead of walking. I sat down any opportunity I was given.
Understand this: I am a driven person. When I am not weighed down by the pain and exhaustion, I am up and moving, doing, always doing something. I throw myself into whatever I am doing. I don't slack. I don't dawdle.
I suppose, though, in the end, I am that way because of this weight I carry. If I don't put everything I am into whatever I am doing, chances are it won't end up done.
The point of all this is that my pain is not a simple addition and subtraction problem. When I was helping that couple, I felt like I could keep going just fine. But I can't trust that feeling. I kept going, in this case, out of necessity. But all that time on my feet, upright, good posture, being social, keeping my shit together -- all of it without my pain medication -- I couldn't just make up for that by taking my medication (which I did) and resting for awhile. That shit builds up, even the smallest of it, and for every inch you add, there's a mile more I have to go to make up for it.
If that makes sense.
I'll leave you with something I have noticed over the years: if I'm not smiling, I'm not well. Really not well.
