Anyone who follows this blog knows that I struggle with washing the dishes. It is a battle that is fought and lost on two fronts: emotional and physical.
The emotional part is owing to the fact that I don't have a dishwasher and the dishes multiply like rabbits and are a continual eye sore on the side of the sink.
In spite of cleaning them up and being rewarded by not only an empty sink and benches and of course, clean dishes- I find the complete futility of feeling done with them is disheartening.
A terrible procrastinator, I promise myself that I will keep up with them, but illness laughs as it assails me with yet another flare, and they remain on the bench mocking me for being defeated yet again.
So here comes the other side of this domestic dilemma: being completely out of spoons and suffering from broken knees and collapsing spine. I simply cannot stand.
And of course that horridly wicked ruler, Fibromyalgia ensures that I am in an almost constant flare, and it is the cherry on the top of my cocktail of pain. So not only is my physical health attacked, but also my mental health. It's depressing.
I know I could ask Chris for help, but he has heart failure and battles his own health issues. It has always been me who washes the dishes, and then he will usually come and dry them and put them away. I am grateful.
Until I can gather some spoons I will sit and wait for my Tramadol to work. I plan to clear the dishes up, cook some steak and vegetables for dinner tonight and rest. That's the plan. Meanwhile, they're silently waiting for me.
