Ruminations on pain

They say that the pain is the greatest in the 48 to 72 hours following the surgery.
By all accounts, that must mean I'll start to feel better tomorrow.
The odd thing is that I feel fine right now, just in a lot of pain.

Life feels normal:
e-mail keeps flowing,
work keeps pouring down on me,
bills need to be paid,
cats need to be fed,
dishes need to be washed.

But then the wooziness and the queasiness hits, and it feels like I can't keep going.

I feel terrible for wasting a sunny day.
I feel guilty for not being excited about new hens.
I feel bad for not being able to sit outside and have a nice meal beside the grill.
I feel horrible for not sleeping upstairs with Jim.
I feel like a bad person for having bad thoughts.
In a couple of days, I know it will be just the passage of pain.
But first, gotta do taxes.


I do have a sense that I am somewhat delirious, operating in two different worlds: the world of the normal and the world of pain. The best thing to do, I think, is to unplug completely.
Whatever needs to be done can get done in a couple of days.


Poetry might be your inner anthem,
the sounds, the smells, the colors, and textures that move you.
The rhythm that makes your body move,
The music that feels like it's yours.
What is it?
How is it?
When do you know you've got it,
that you're in the flow?

I wonder what will happen as spring dawns.
It is already here.
I just feel, as usual,
running behind,
like it's still winter,
like I am still in sweats
when I should be in shorts.

I still do see snow on the ground
in patches,
reminders that we're a few hundred feet higher
and that in the foothills
winter lingers
longer.

Song of myself.
If I had the energy,
I would dig it out and read it,
or find an audio recording
to listen.
I'm sort of afraid,
though,
that I won't understand the point
that the Great Whitman made.

Pain reveals your vulnerabilities.
It lets you feel like you can conquer.
It lets you admit you are only human.
It lets you cry,
It lets you fall down.

448 words. Three hundred to go.
The fingers keep moving,
as the jaw throbs in pain.