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Dec. 20th, 2012 12:36 pmI'm paying for the evening out yesterday and etc, and have just emerged from bed. It reminds me why the 'spoons' idea was invented. After 12 hours of bedrest, I feel as if I've not had much sleep, but I have maybe a couple of spoons. I am out of bed, for instance, which took one spoon. I managed to put together lunch from stuff I already had (not to cook anything, though, coffee has to wait today). Because I've got the right kind of chronic illness, I'll be getting a few more spoons when the weather change is finished (soon) and also this evening. That's when I'll get the bulk of my work done for the day.
The reason I'm explaining it at moderate length is because I've noticed in conversations (offline as well as online) that 'not having many spoons' has become a euphemism for extraordinary tiredness at the end of the year or after doing something rather amazingly big. I can see how that's happened. The more we use it that way, however, the harder it is for those people who face that level of fatigue every single day to explain just what they face.
Mostly, when I'm tired, I avoid saying that I don't have many spoons (although I have been known to slip up). I've learned to assess whether my fatigue will address itself with a coffee or a good meal or time out from overwork, or if I have to just give up doing most things and wait for it to pass. This is why I was in a flutter over the return of the fibro symptoms - just waiting for the fatigue to pass is a stinker of a thing. It's also why I kept saying how lucky I was. I had a friend, years ago, whose fatigue took two years to pass sufficiently for her to be taken shopping once a week and another three years before she could call her life her own in any way. I still have only minor symptoms and they can still be kept (mostly) at bay with sound sleep and the right tablets. That's why I complained about the cars in the morning; my sleep was interrupted every two hours and I knew I would pay. I wouldn't be surprised if this flare is because of the asthma I've had all year, with its tendency to gift me with sleepless nights. Sufferers from chronic illnesses work very hard to keep symptoms down to manageable levels (our feet are paddling madly underwater, in fact) and we tend to know our triggers.
'Spoons' for me are for when the chronic illnesses intervene and I have to evaluate how much strength I have in a given day before I can do such basic things as get out of bed, get dressed, eat breakfast. This is why I keep saying I'm fortunate in my illnesses. I seldom have enough energy to do housework or even move bits and pieces from here and there, but I only have to count spoons in the way I did this morning ("Can I get out of bed? Yes. If I take one more step, will I be able to do anything else? No. Should I go back to bed? Fraid so.") a few days a year right now.
I talk as if the bedrest gives recovery, but I'm not sure it does. That's another difference between lack of spoons and ordinary fatigue. Bedrest is the only option on some days: it is not a cure.
Now I've explained at great length, but I still haven't worked out how the 'spoons' terminology has gone into wider use. All I've done is hazard a guess. I'm too tired to do more, though. I'm better than I was first thing this morning (tablets help) but my body still feels as if it's been partying wildly all night instead of coming home sedately at 10.30 pm and going to sleep at a normal hour. I shall drink some water and go back to bed and ponder the slight language shift from there.
The good news is that I managed my work yesterday. Work and parties! My list of writing to complete before 31 December is still very achievable. Each of us who has chronic illness is entirely different from every other. It may be a couple of months before I'm back to full Gillian-capacity, but I'm doing pretty well notwithstanding.
The reason I'm explaining it at moderate length is because I've noticed in conversations (offline as well as online) that 'not having many spoons' has become a euphemism for extraordinary tiredness at the end of the year or after doing something rather amazingly big. I can see how that's happened. The more we use it that way, however, the harder it is for those people who face that level of fatigue every single day to explain just what they face.
Mostly, when I'm tired, I avoid saying that I don't have many spoons (although I have been known to slip up). I've learned to assess whether my fatigue will address itself with a coffee or a good meal or time out from overwork, or if I have to just give up doing most things and wait for it to pass. This is why I was in a flutter over the return of the fibro symptoms - just waiting for the fatigue to pass is a stinker of a thing. It's also why I kept saying how lucky I was. I had a friend, years ago, whose fatigue took two years to pass sufficiently for her to be taken shopping once a week and another three years before she could call her life her own in any way. I still have only minor symptoms and they can still be kept (mostly) at bay with sound sleep and the right tablets. That's why I complained about the cars in the morning; my sleep was interrupted every two hours and I knew I would pay. I wouldn't be surprised if this flare is because of the asthma I've had all year, with its tendency to gift me with sleepless nights. Sufferers from chronic illnesses work very hard to keep symptoms down to manageable levels (our feet are paddling madly underwater, in fact) and we tend to know our triggers.
'Spoons' for me are for when the chronic illnesses intervene and I have to evaluate how much strength I have in a given day before I can do such basic things as get out of bed, get dressed, eat breakfast. This is why I keep saying I'm fortunate in my illnesses. I seldom have enough energy to do housework or even move bits and pieces from here and there, but I only have to count spoons in the way I did this morning ("Can I get out of bed? Yes. If I take one more step, will I be able to do anything else? No. Should I go back to bed? Fraid so.") a few days a year right now.
I talk as if the bedrest gives recovery, but I'm not sure it does. That's another difference between lack of spoons and ordinary fatigue. Bedrest is the only option on some days: it is not a cure.
Now I've explained at great length, but I still haven't worked out how the 'spoons' terminology has gone into wider use. All I've done is hazard a guess. I'm too tired to do more, though. I'm better than I was first thing this morning (tablets help) but my body still feels as if it's been partying wildly all night instead of coming home sedately at 10.30 pm and going to sleep at a normal hour. I shall drink some water and go back to bed and ponder the slight language shift from there.
The good news is that I managed my work yesterday. Work and parties! My list of writing to complete before 31 December is still very achievable. Each of us who has chronic illness is entirely different from every other. It may be a couple of months before I'm back to full Gillian-capacity, but I'm doing pretty well notwithstanding.