My morning is off to a rough start. I slept poorly (my Traveling Partner slept poorly, too). I woke with my headache, worse than usual, and although I slipped away quietly, early, for my walk without waking my partner, the Anxious Adventurer was up soon after. He rattled about sufficiently noisily to wake my partner, who commenced pinging me with information about his pain, his responses to new medications and details he’d like communicated to his doctors. It’s a new day.

… It was good weekend, generally, but there’s a lot of bitching coming up in this bit of writing (maybe skip it)…

After finishing the conversation with my partner, I could finally get out on the trail. Nearby construction had already gotten going. My tinnitus is loud in my ears and the morning seems a very noisy one. I feel irritable and frustrated.

… I breathe, exhale, and relax. I pull my focus back to the rising sun, the silhouetted trees, and the scents of summer meadow flowers.

… My Traveling Partner pings me again…

I sit down to handle the additional communication. Looks like it is going to be a steady effort through the day if I’m going to get what I need for myself from the limited time a day has to offer. It’s the most complicated detail about caregiving for me, personally; continuing to manage my self-care and support my own needs. I don’t get much help from my partner on that presently; he’s pretty consumed by his needs and also needs my help. He’s injured and his surgery is still weeks away. It’s a hell of a puzzle. I feel inadequate and wholly made of fallible human stuff.

… This solitary morning time is so precious to me. It has become an essential component of my self-care, and is often literally the only time (outside a bathroom break) that I can call my own over the course of a busy work day. Today, it’s looking like I’m not going to get much out of it…

…Ping…

I resume my walk, feeling distracted, as if waiting for the next ping. The sun is up. Daybreak has passed. The sun rise is over. I missed my chance to watch the full moon set. Fuck. I take notice of my negative thoughts and aggravation, and let it go. Again. I breathe. Exhale. Walk on. I pull my focus back to my steps, my breath, the sensations of this body, my awareness of the world around me. Clusters of yellow and white flowers sway above the meadow grass. A turkey vulture rides the air currents overhead. The oaks along the trail stand tall overhead as I walk through the grove at the edge of the meadow.

I take my focus off my pain and irritation, and focus on the trees, the horizon, the colors of the morning sky. I keep walking, making mental notes, observations, for later writing when I get to my halfway point – I can just see the bend in the trail up ahead.

…Ping…

Pain is a difficult challenge. It’s very much part of the human experience and it also very much sucks to experience it. Pain “shrinks our world”, and unmanaged pain is a pretty horrible experience to have to endure. Do OTC pain relievers help? Sometimes. What about Rx pain relievers, do those ease pain? Sometimes. Even so, it’s more a reduction in pain or loss of awareness, than any kind of real solution. In fact, just about every potential remedy for pain is only somewhat helpful. Pain tells us something is wrong with this fragile vessel, and it’s pretty fucking difficult to silence that warning without fixing the underlying cause (which may not always be possible at all). Physical therapy, chiropractic treatments, meditation, acupuncture, CBT… 100% of all of these have helped someone at some point, and I promise you that none of them is 100% effective, ever, for anyone living with chronic pain. I personally use most of the available options, based on the circumstances of a given day, trying to find the best balance, trying to strictly limit my use of prescription strength pain killers, because…consequences. There are reliably tradeoffs. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I walk on.

…It doesn’t make things easier that American healthcare is so completely broken where treating pain is concerned…

I do my best to manage my pain skillfully. Sometimes I just have to “look past it” and do my best to prevent pain from calling my shots. I’m not even saying I’m always successful. My results vary. I live with pain. A lot of people do. Sometimes all I have available to manage my pain is pure seething rage, resentment, and force of will. It’s hard. I keep at it. My results vary.

… My Traveling Partner pings me again, I stop again to read his message…

My partner’s whole world is his pain today. I find myself struggling to prevent his pain from also becoming my whole world. (I’ve got my own to deal with too.) Another breath. Another step. How do I get the emotional distance I need to maintain my resilience for this marathon…? I tried to communicate a boundary regarding this time that is so critical to my wellness… I definitely don’t feel heard*. My irritation competes for my attention with my love and sympathy for my partner. He’s suffering and there’s so little I can really do. It sucks.

…”Put your own oxygen mask on first.”… Super good advice, but if the traveler next to you is clawing your mask out of your hands while you try to put it on (metaphorically speaking)… What then? I mean, in a legit air emergency whereupon oxygen masks are required, that would be a very different question. Here, now? I rather frustratedly allow my self-care to be completely undermined in order to care for my partner. It’s not healthy or sustainable, I just can’t see myself not being there for him. Caregiving is hard.

I sigh as I write. My Traveling Partner pointed out that I could have chosen to ignore all his messages until I finished my walk. It never even occurred to me; he’s home injured. It doesn’t sound wise to ignore a message if there’s potential he could have fallen…

Today feels like the sort of day that will require every practice, every moment, and may test everything I have learned about managing my pain, my mental health, and my ability to care for another human being with love and compassion. I don’t feel ready for this sort of test, and I know my results vary.

… Maybe I should take the day off work to deal with this shit…?

… I can at least begin again. Sometimes that’s enough. (Your results may vary.)

*Later, after I got back to the house, my Traveling Partner made it very clear he did hear me, does get it, recognized the boundary I set, supports my need to set that boundary, understands the necessity of my taking care of myself and the value of that quiet morning time for my emotional and physical wellness… all the things. He’s also having his own experience, and doing his best. Sometimes this shit is just hard. I feel heard, supported, and loved. It’s a journey, and we’re on it together.