Four hours...

So after nearly a whole week of bed-rest, I dragged myself out of bed this morning and braved work.  My body protested loudly - and I mean loudly, I'm sure the neighbours mistook the cracks and groans of my hips and knees for thunder claps - but I did my best to make myself look presentable and get out the door.  Lucky for me I have family who live close by, and I got a lift to work, as it's fairly usual for me to have a couple of km to walk from where my car is parked to where I work, which in my current condition is pretty much my daily quota right there.  I got dropped at the door, gritted the teeth and in I went.

My colleagues are extraordinarily understanding.  Working in health, you'd expect them to be - but I appreciate it all the same.  They could see I was in trouble a mile off today.  Apart from the fact that my eyes look like the devil himself is reflected in them (the redness of scleritis is very difficult to mask!), my slow, deliberate movements and tell-tale shuffle, combined with my "comfort" wardrobe and compression gloves, tell a story without me so much as opening my mouth.  My boss helpfully found me some computer-based work to do, and got me set up so I wouldn't have to move.  Just type.  Barely even think, which given the mix of pain-brain-fog and pain-killer-brain-fog, wasn't a terrible thing.

But four hours was my limit.  They were four of the more painful hours I've had in the past week or two - when you're at home, you can zonk yourself out with the meds required to make you comfortable.  You can prop yourself up with cushions and pillows and heat packs.  You can cry.  None of these things can happen at work.  Try as I might, I put on my happy face (well, it was more of a grimace today, but I was making an effort!) and do my best to put the pain, stiffness and emotional weight to the back of my mind.  It doesn't always work, which is why it got to lunch time and I had to admit defeat.

I'm now walking the tightrope that is balancing financial need with physical need.  I've exhausted my leave entitlements, so now what I don't work, I don't get paid for.  That's not ideal, but at the end of the day I can't afford to not work.  But some days my body can't afford for me to try to work either.  Catch 22.  

My only hope is that I will wake up tomorrow morning feeling brighter, bouncier and just downright better.  I'm holding on to the little hope I have left with two crippled, sausage-esque hands... and while I can't hold on very tight, I can assure you I'm not planning on letting go without a fight!