I have phoned PALS, and they’ll get back to me (The main line is just an automated service).
I’ve realised that I need to get all my official cards in-hand today in order to have the ready by Monday, since nobody works over the weekend and I’m going to spend tomorrow either delirious with hunger whilst waiting for my anaesthetic, or dazed after it.
This morning, so far, has been shite. Woke up in so much pain that I had to have a wank in order to benefit from the brief pain-relief burst immediately after finishing, and then to use that minute of numbness to crawl to the other side of the bed to find my actual opiates. And then had to lie there for the ten minutes as the opiates took effect, feeling sick, twitching in pain, assessing the further damage that’d been done by the muscle contraction of orgasm, and having the uniquely awful sensation of knowing that every time I do this I further ingrain a Pavlovian unease with sex.
When you haven’t got the strength to move the five feet from one side of the bed to the other, and the memory-foam mattress feels like lying on rugby-ball sized lumps of basalt, and you can’t hear anything over your own pulse and for some reason the taste of blood and bile in your mouth is deafening as well… Well, there’s not much choice, really.
I want to swim. Actually, no, more honestly I want to go to the gym and work out until I can feel progress. I want to feel muscle fibres at their absolute limit of pain and stress. I want my legs to shake as I climb down from the weighted squat apparatus. I want to see bruises blossoming on my forearms as I delt row. I want to wonder if the tendons in my wrist will actually break the skin during a biceps curl. I want to need a long lie down on the floor after a session on the roman chair, as my back clicks and settles and feels better for once.
I can’t, of course. If I go to the gym, even on my crutches, even getting a taxi both ways, even if I’m obviously rehabilitating myself from injury, I’ll run the risk of someone pouncing on me with a “You’re not crippled enough!” and phoning the DWP, safe in the knowledge that they’ve Caught A Scrounger. Rather than that they’re taking away the one safe outlet for a cripple to keep their body in a broadly-functioning condition, and keep their mind along with it. I get that fear at swimming as well, but I feel like “I can swim – it’s gentle, see – I just can’t walk” is easy to understand, because swimming is culturally considered to be something that old people and pregnant women do. Nobody quite understands that a short gym session, with helpful bodybuilders on-hand, can be just as relaxing and refreshing and safe as a paddle in the baths.
Gym resolution, if I do go:
– No shoulder press, it always ends in clavicle dislocation.
– No static bike; I need those legs to go home on.
– Stick to chest press, biceps curl, triceps extension, delt row, roman chair, calf raise, thigh curl, weighted squat and possibly inclined situp.
– Do not plan to do this every day. Or even every two days. Once a week is enough for now.
Do I risk it?