Pass the Frozen Peas (I)

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Pain will send you off into restless sleep, interrupt it around the clock, wake you up, and have you sitting in the couch with a cold compress under your thighs at 7:25am on a Saturday, holding a cup of hot tea to the back of your left ear instead of drinking it. Everything is too bright, smells too strong, and you want to start donating your vital organs now. You curse the hunger pangs, then curse the nausea that won’t let you eat. The pain is already cursed…no need.

Anytime you are in such a bad chronic pain place, you have so much to write that you don’t…you can’t. Then there is the moment the pain that is doing like it wants to kill you stops and your body returns to baseline pain. You want to roll the feeling up and light it occasionally like a blunt because my, what a high! There is a lot you wish you could do because of this thing your body has become; one time it grants you permission to be normal, then the next you are crippled – nothing broke, nothing sprained, nothing battered, and yet you must pretty much be wheeled around to survive.

You read too much sometimes, you see? You think too much. You have been sick for close to a decade now and you still open your browser and type in words that unearth confusing findings that stare back at you, then begin to mock you. Sometimes you wonder if you made yourself this way. Some of the findings say that a possible cause of your body self-harming, is past trauma. You swallow the bitterness that bursts into your mouth and it gives you heartburns. Past trauma? You do not have enough fingers and toes to list them. Past trauma! This feels like the ultimate betrayal. Aren’t bodies supposed to heal? If they do not heal, aren’t they supposed to die? Yours wants to have its cake and eat it too, and it did not consult you.

This particular Saturday, your husband is away on a work trip and perhaps missing him has added up for a full pity party. You desperately want to talk to somebody…somebody else, not him. You want to tell them you’re stressed from delayed grieving and self-blaming. You want to tell them you are scared and bordering on obsessed after the miscarriage you had a month back. You want to tell them you have coddled the idea that the loss was as a result of your chronically ill body. You want to tell them that it is not the first time such a thing has happened and you wonder if your body is capable of holding life when it has consistently held yours dangling off a cliff for years. You have wondered if you are not expecting the impossible from a traitor.

The grief always sends you back to that night you woke up screaming from pain, hearing your husband call your name over and over. B! B! B! Him, positively scared he was losing you, and you positively convinced death had finally arrived. But it was just horrible, horrible pain once again. Then days later you started bleeding and you didn’t cry. You didn’t cry when everything escalated and you ended up in the hospital. You kept nodding silently to the details the three doctors that attended to you gave. You have the pictures from the ultrasound somewhere close now, everything just dark and blurry, nothing making sense. “An incomplete miscarriage,” they said. “Emergency evacuation of the remains,” they said.

“Remains.”

“Remains.”

Such unintended insensitivity.

Being alone this Saturday is not a good thing, but the silence is welcoming. It is almost 10am and you have only sipped a bit of the tea which is now cold. You have fresh fish and chicken sitting on your kitchen sink from the night before and you have no idea how you’re going to manage and prepare them. You haven’t taken your bath either, and you tell your husband this. “Forgo them,” he says, “I’m this close to tears,” you add. “Perhaps you should cry,” he answers. But you can’t even afford to do that. The strain of it will up your pain levels and everything else that comes with it. You remember the times you succumbed to tears and how miserable it made you and you take a pass. You lie back, whispering “Oh dear Jesus, dear Jesus, please let it stop,” and then close your eyes not expecting it to.

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4 thoughts on “Pass the Frozen Peas (I)

  1. You tagged me to read this Amma and it has an encrypted message for me as – one that you’re oblivious to. I have loved and admired you from a far for so long. If nothing makes sense at all just know your existence has made it easy for me on some days. You’re such a brilliant one and I want you to believe with me that, probably there’s a reason for all these. All the Love and Light to you and your supportive husband.
    I love you ❤❤❤

    Liked by 2 people

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