Saturday's Pace

            I walked too fast today.

            As my brother John and I headed down the driveway with the dogs, my legs started to feel like rubber.  They ached just like my body sometimes does after a massage.  I imagine toxins being squeezed out of my cells, leaving their poisonous trail of pain behind.

            I told myself it was good for me, this picked-up-pace, even as I knew it was not.  It seemed too trivial, too silly to say I needed to slow down.   As a result, I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with the feverish ache of fibromyalgia.  A pill gave me partial relief.  Soon it will be time for another pill.

            This morning I knew I would not be in top form because I did not sleep well last night.  Besides the 3:30 a.m. awakening that lasted until 5:30, my sleep was troubled.  I’ve started to dream each night about my mother’s dementia.  The settings and people vary, but always the theme is the same:  I am trying so hard to take care of her and not succeeding.

            Maybe the ache in my soul is manifesting itself through the ache in my body.  My legs, my arms, even my fingers feel weighed down and heavy and sore.  My shoulders are tied in knots. 

            Meanwhile, the pace of care quickens.  Though we are simply sitting in the living room, I am weary of Mom’s continuous and cyclical commentary but aware that she needs my presence.  The marathon, though, is almost over.  I will be able to take a slower pace when I am visiting Mom instead of living with her.