Here a review of Kristen Orser's (school pal and superb poet) latest chapbook. I think it's her latest anyhow, she's so prolific I have trouble keeping up. I was in Chicago for a few days recently and besides killing my shoulders hauling luggage through O'Hare terminal I also reconnected with a lot of good poetry-writing friends of mine.
I told them the abbreviated tale of my year as a medical mystery and like the wonderful friends they are, they were sympathetic and helpful. Maureen suggested tutoring as a way to make some money tax-free. I like the idea since it involves less commitment than a full-time or part-time job. It seems like a good way to stick a toe back into the world of 'work.'
And I have new plans to gather up poems for submitting. The anthology comes out in April, and I promised myself to have work out by then.
Half of today though, was spent writhing around in bed in pain. As usual, I could only guess what the cause of the injury might have been. I switched the mattress on my bed with my sister's. My mattress, a little older, has a dip in it, and because of that dip I'd been sleeping with my knees unintentionally hyperextended. So I switched. Then I made up both beds and cleaned the room, collecting my library books, taking out the trash and the laundry. I tried to rest in between. I don't know. In any case, within a couple hours I was crying and writhing around in bed. I dropped bombs of my own: tramadol, meclizine for the inevitable nausea and Lidoderm patches with ace wraps. Even so, I lost most of the day.
It is this problem of pain that prevents me from moving forward. In any direction. Like, as long as I want to do more with my life than lie in bed and cry (most people do) I have to figure something out.
I have ideas; I'll bring them up with my rheumatologist when I see her next month. In the meantime, my new goals include market research for poems, editing poems and applying to see if the hospital will write off my surgery on account of being p-o-o-r.