Lying on the floor with my head resting on two bedpillows smashed against the legs of the couch, my feet up on a dining room chair and the moist heat of a heating pad (very important for it to be moist) toasting my lower back, it's easy to forget that I can't simply sit up when I need to go to the bathroom or answer the phone or measure the exact width of my living room. Instead, when the urget to move occurs, I need to begin ever so gently, bring both legs to the chest, roll my entire body to my left side and try hard to remember which moves will get me on my feet and which ones will send a brief, arresting shot of pain through my lower back. Do I put my hands down and push up? Is it easier to roll up from the left or right? When can I put weight on my feet? Never, ever move the neck out of line or let it drop when attempting to get up.
It's not uncomfortable on the floor. It is difficult to read, and not the ideal position to use my laptop, but it is one of the few positions where I can forget I've got a muscle spasm that won't quit. Earlier, I got to listen to my landlord sweeping out the landing in front of my door. "What are all these green things?" I heard her ask, and I know they are the remnants of the Christmas tree I dragged out the door this morning. I did my best to sweep up, but needles are pesky and I was in no shape to sweep up. I think she's also convinced I never pull the front door locked behind me. Add the needles to that list.
What was I doing hauling out a Christmas tree in my condition? I had to. Seven days on the floor is too much. Seven days without getting a thing done is too much. And if I'm going to be in pain, why not be in pain but have the Christmas tree undecorated and put on the curb and the apartment vacuumed?
I also hear passing cars, vibrating refrigerator, the bass of the stereo upstairs, and the clicking of my keyboard. It's a seventy degree day in early January.
