Saturday, February 7, 2015


Dear John,
Kill me now. This has been a bad fibro week and I'm tired of it. So just kill me now.
It's not surprising. The weather has been all over the place. I did lots of housework last weekend and had a busy week at work. And I'm paying for all of it. Everything hurts. In the system you and I used to communicate pain levels, I feel like I've been run over by a herd of wildebeests. (You know the scale - on a good day it's a herd of ladybugs, on the worst possible day they're buffalo. Probably odd, but definitely an effective communication tool.)
I so hate to do it, but I'll probably have to stay home tomorrow. It's supposed to be 40 and raining, which won't help any. I hope I can get the pain down enough to sleep tonight. But I have my little furry heating pads to help me sleep, and that is good. If you were here, I don't think there's anything except my feet that you could rub to help me sleep - everything else is too tender to touch. I would welcome a foot rub, if you can get away.
Have I told you lately that I love my job? You know we missed last Monday - were closed because of the blizzard - but they paid us for the day anyway. And everybody knows how much pain I've had this week and they're grateful that I've been at work. But I'm grateful to have work to go to. I'd hurt just as bad at home, and at work I have something to keep my mind off the pain. And it's something that I enjoy, and it pays the bills.
It was just pain all week, but this afternoon the exhaustion hit me. I guess my adrenaline level dropped when I got home from work. I couldn't even stay awake to watch Duke finish trouncing Notre Dame. When I feel like this I usually spend the day on the sofa. But tomorrow I may actually stay in bed. We'll see, and I'll report in tomorrow evening. Or you could just come and check on me. If you do, try to remember that bottle of Ginger Ale you promised to bring me.
Longing for your touch no matter how much it hurts,

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