Hollow and Sweet
A bad night's sleep. Shoulder pain. As I lay awake, I tried to think of how best to describe that familiar kind of shoulder pain. It is special, pain different from the other pains. It's not bright or red or flashing. It doesn't get in your face and demand every bit of attention you have. Instead it wages a war of attrition, an insurgent action. Not pestering like a a cut that only reminds you when you absently brush against the offending part.
As I lay there last night, I remembered people describing a pain as hollow. That word, hollow, covers some of the aspects. It's slightly ghostly. That shoulder pain must come from the joint, and that may be what gives it that special nature. There is no period to it, it doesn't crescendo and recede, like a tidal force. It doesn't seem to be linked to anything else. It seemed to me, sweet. It camped in my right shoulder and I could not make it worse or better by changing position. But I could not take my attention from it. I busied my mind reading, but it still worked on me. I closed my eyes and counted my breathes, but it ignored my attempts to ignore it and kept single-mindedly to its work. It worked like a persistent hallucination, whisper loudly, and consistently enough to always draw my attention back to it no matter what I tried.
I knew what the pain wanted, it wanted medication of some kind and/or ice. But I wanted sleep and I was keeping Sue awake already and I didn't want to make it worse for her. Still I lay there, moving slowly from one side to the other. Take off my glasses, put away my Kindle and count sheep. Then put on my glasses, turn on my Kindle and read again, over and over. Propping this with a pillow, bending that, and always, waiting for some signal that my brain was shutting off and seeking sleep. But that hollow, sweet pain continued. Almost palpable, with my eyes closed, I could almost imagine its shape and density, its color and faint sickly smell, and the serene look on its face as it went about its work. A single, perfect note held on a violin that was felt but not heard.
Like perfectly matched opponents in an arm wrestling match, there would be no end. Finally at two o'clock I got up and took some ibuprofen and went back to bed to read some more. I finished the book I was on and began another. I tried not to look at the illuminated clock-time projected on the ceiling while I lay there waiting. What difference would it make? Finally, at last some time later, my mind wandered and signaled that a chance to sleep was passing by. I quietly and softly stowed my glasses and Kindle with my eyes closed. I tried to think of nothing. I would not examine the offer of sleep, I'd take it, thankfully, without questions and I didn't dare ask if my shoulder still hurt. Sleep would cover the soft, sweet, hollow pain, at least for awhile and that was enough.
As I've pointed out before, life is made of small compromises.
More later,
As I lay there last night, I remembered people describing a pain as hollow. That word, hollow, covers some of the aspects. It's slightly ghostly. That shoulder pain must come from the joint, and that may be what gives it that special nature. There is no period to it, it doesn't crescendo and recede, like a tidal force. It doesn't seem to be linked to anything else. It seemed to me, sweet. It camped in my right shoulder and I could not make it worse or better by changing position. But I could not take my attention from it. I busied my mind reading, but it still worked on me. I closed my eyes and counted my breathes, but it ignored my attempts to ignore it and kept single-mindedly to its work. It worked like a persistent hallucination, whisper loudly, and consistently enough to always draw my attention back to it no matter what I tried.
I knew what the pain wanted, it wanted medication of some kind and/or ice. But I wanted sleep and I was keeping Sue awake already and I didn't want to make it worse for her. Still I lay there, moving slowly from one side to the other. Take off my glasses, put away my Kindle and count sheep. Then put on my glasses, turn on my Kindle and read again, over and over. Propping this with a pillow, bending that, and always, waiting for some signal that my brain was shutting off and seeking sleep. But that hollow, sweet pain continued. Almost palpable, with my eyes closed, I could almost imagine its shape and density, its color and faint sickly smell, and the serene look on its face as it went about its work. A single, perfect note held on a violin that was felt but not heard.
Like perfectly matched opponents in an arm wrestling match, there would be no end. Finally at two o'clock I got up and took some ibuprofen and went back to bed to read some more. I finished the book I was on and began another. I tried not to look at the illuminated clock-time projected on the ceiling while I lay there waiting. What difference would it make? Finally, at last some time later, my mind wandered and signaled that a chance to sleep was passing by. I quietly and softly stowed my glasses and Kindle with my eyes closed. I tried to think of nothing. I would not examine the offer of sleep, I'd take it, thankfully, without questions and I didn't dare ask if my shoulder still hurt. Sleep would cover the soft, sweet, hollow pain, at least for awhile and that was enough.
As I've pointed out before, life is made of small compromises.
More later,
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