The Math of a Bad Day

Some days you just can’t spin. Other than to be grateful they are over. But it’s never over, ye? That’s the nature of a chronic illness. It’s all the time, night and day, every which way up and down or low and high as it were.

It was bound to be a hard day. Parasympathetic rebound was inevitable. Probably dehydrated on top of that. So the morning blood pressure “dip” (88/57) was not necessarily a surprise. And still I wasn’t expecting the dizzy, disorienting, discomfort that painted the morning a dark dreary dysautonomic drudge of a day.

Even less could I have guessed my Zen would wear off completely and I fell up into the turmoil of the high boil hyper POTS (190/121). Knowing what it is, doesn’t make it easier. Not by a long shot. It’s a dark place with blinding light in every metaphoric sense of the moment.

It is having it all in one ball of terror, pain, anger and gratitude (thank you for being there for me). And waiting for the storm to pass .. the next 🌊 to hit .. and washing up upon the shore more broken than better.

It is beyond poetry or pictures and yet still they insist to be seen. There are post-hoc-abilities that appease the perceived control whispering, next time we will do better than this. Though if history is doomed to repeat itself, MATH will light the way. There is no getting around the consequences when the constants constrain the equation and you are lost solving for Y.