I haven't had any consistent jump the last few days. In a bid to mix things up, my wife-appointed daytime security guard, Susie, and I agreed to change our three-day-a-week swim time from noon to 7:15 a.m.
It's a plan. I didn't say it was a smart plan.
We'll see how I'm doing by the end of the day. It should be interesting. Over the past week or so, I've had bouts of zero energy. I've talked plenty with our physio, Paula Peres, and she says that it's completely reasonable, considering how much time I spent in the hospital. In fact, she maintains that she's surprised that I haven't had more of those breakdowns.
I get it. Doesn't mean I can't fight it.
Our GP, Dr. Jennifer Rogerson, says it's logical, too. My body has been through an awful thing, between the Solitary Plasmacytoma, the radiation, the eight surgeries.
She also ties a chunk of it to sleep apnea.
There may not be two words I hate more it the English language than "sleep apnea." Seriously. I've got one of those goofy machines that makes me look and feel like Darth Vader's lushy nephew. It's a terrible contraption to get used to and I'm still nowhere close to being comfortable with it.
Dr. Rogerson maintains that it will change my life and make me a happier person overall. There's a guy who sees another doctor in her office who tells everyone he comes across in the waiting room what the machine has done for his life.
Hello? I'm pretty freakin' happy much of the time. I get much happier, and I'll be hard to put up with.
I think a lot of this is that I'm wearing out mentally. I'm getting better physically all the time. Paula wants me to cut down on the walker use in favour of the cane (aka Evander). And for a few hours on both Saturday and Sunday around the house I went freestyle...no cane, no walker, just me.
I'm still frustrated. The better I get, the more I want to get better. I think things will improve once I get driving again -- I'm talking to companies about lessons today.
And maybe the early-morning pool sessions will be a plus.