A Monumental Day

Call last Friday a monumental day.

Recently, I sat in the yellow chair in my kitchen, with a cutting board on the ottoman, and cut four celery stalks into smaller pieces then put the pieces into eight bags. The work didn't make me tired so after doing the celery, I made 14 grab-bags using all of the refrigerated grape tomatoes and strawberries. A couple of days later, I sat in a rolling chair in the laundry room and sorted my clothes. While sitting in that chair, I loaded the washer and proceeded to do three loads of my laundry.

My world expanded when I realized that I could do many things when sitting, and that sitting and reaching didn't make me as tired standing and reaching. I contemplated how a rolling chair on each floor would give me mobility.  (For example, a chair in my room would allow me to keep my room clean, make my bed, go in the closet, do my hair, put on makeup, and, something I haven't done in years, iron.)

Granted, my fine motor skills are different now and I can't do some things, but I CAN do a lot of things and ask someone to do the things I can't. Some things in my house will have to be moved so I can reach them, but I'll be able to do things instead of just sit and watch tv.

That action has given me more hope than anything has in the last four years. I feel so happy and wonderful that I regard my world as a new world of possibility. Last night I thought about Friday being a monumental day.  I considered how the day felt great because I had accepted my limitations, whereas, before...I hadn't. (I'd been sick for almost four years and for most of that time I cried whenever I failed at something because I felt sad remembering the past.)

I had stopped doing the things I could no longer do and hadn't done some things for a long time. When I did them I felt a sense of elation. The elation probably intensified because I didn't think once I could do this.