Heavy Fog

The fog rolls in. It’s thick, it’s heavy. I can scarcely breathe. It presses down on me, crushing my rib cage and compressing my lungs.

It’s the fog of pain, and maybe depression too. It blinds me so I cannot see where the pain ends and the depression begins.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ 

Lately, I’ve been struggling. With myself, with parenting. It’s hard to be yourself when you’re not yourself. It’s hard to do the things you used to do when you can’t, and if you do…the pain makes you angry. Angry because you can’t do those things you used to do with relative ease. Angry because it’s harder now, when it already was hard enough before.

Some days are okay, really. But other days are bad, and I can’t help but want to burst into tears because I’m snappy and I’m frustrated with my healing process.

I still can’t put weight on my heel. I end up holding my ankle at an awkward position so that I don’t put weight on the heel, kind of walking on the side and front of my heel. Naturally, all the muscles in my foot and ankle are enraged at this. You’re not supposed to walk like that.

I went to IKEA today with Matt and Archer. It was a terrible experience. I thought we would be in and out, because I had two desks in mind that I wanted. They were sold out of both, and after walking so much to get to the “warehouse”, I couldn’t look for a different desk. I had to get out of there. The pain was making me dizzy and I couldn’t see straight. All I could feel was the pain. I had no patience for my cranky toddler (and husband). When we got back to the truck, I cried because I didn’t get my desk and it was a pointless trip. (Well, sort of. We did get my nephew’s birthday gift).


My (very swollen) ankle and heel.

I was really looking forward to a new, shiny desk. The one with cube shelves built in. I was so disappointed, in the fact that I didn’t get the desk I wanted…and because I couldn’t enjoy our trip out because I was in agonizing pain. Usually, I love walking through all the displays, daydreaming about the day I’ll one day get to have a pretty kitchen/bathroom/new couch/whatever. I tried not to complain, and I don’t think I did…talking was difficult.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

In seven days, Matt will be leaving. I am paranoid that I won’t survive a month without him. He does so much, even before my surgery…and right now, he does it all. I’m trying to be strong, trying to keep positive. When people ask me “how are you going to cope?”, I just want to scream and cry. I don’t know, I don’t know…ok? The only thing I know is that he can’t not go. He obviously needs to work, to bring in money.

I have thought of a few things to help me, if I need it…and unfortunately, I’ll be leaning on family a lot probably. In April, that is. Seven days doesn’t seem like a lot of time to make a difference.


About J.C. Hannigan

25. Mother. Wife. Lover of words. Weaver of stories. My first book, Collide, is available in e-book for Amazon Kindle and Kobo.
This entry was posted in anxiety, bits and pieces, blogging, challenges, chronic pain, complaining, concerns, depression, emotional, exhaustion, fears, frustrations, hard stuff, health/medical, heaviness, honesty, insecurities, Matt, me, MHE, musings, pain, personal, ranting, scars, struggles, surgery, tough stuff, ugly cry, updates, us, verbal diarrhea, words, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Heavy Fog

  1. Oh dear. There is really no “just in and out” with IKEA, is there.

    I’d like to make a crazy suggestion. You seem, like me, to be the sort of person who is reluctant to ask for help. So as one stubbornly independent woman to another, I am giving you total permission to send an “all points bulletin” to your ENTIRE locally accessible friends and family with a list of the days Matt will be away, and a concrete list of things that would be helpful. (eg. — “cook me supper”, Clean the kitchen while I read bedtime stories,” Pick up groceries so I don’t have to walk around the store”…) Lots of people would step up and help, especially if you gave them specific suggestions. And if you call on everyone, then it doesn’t have to be a big burden on anyone. This is the sort of thing that doesn’t come easily to me either, but there have been points where I have been forced to rely on the kindness of others, and it’s actually a wonderful thing both for you and the people who pitch in.

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