A Meditation on Sitting

If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Barbara Ellen McMahon, author of the novella, Mrs. Rochester. It’s a sequel to Jane Eyre. This time, it’s Jane who’s locked in the attic and there’s a new governess. It’s available on Kobo, where it’s been getting rave reviews. If you enjoy my writing here, chances are you’ll love Mrs. Rochester.

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For me and for pretty much anyone else with mobility issues or chronic pain, chairs are super important. Chairs are everything. They can make or break an experience and let you settle in and enjoy, or send you on your way far sooner than you’d like. So many of my social experiences are dictated by the comfort or lack of, of the chairs provided.

When I consider going to an event, I think, will there be chairs? If I’m expected to stand, I can’t go.

I was at a wedding with my sister-in-law, who also lives with chronic pain. We were both driven nearly mad by the tiny, uncomfortable (but very pretty) chairs we were sitting on through the meal and then the speeches. We both had to leave when they were over because the pain was unbearable.

I need a sturdy chair, one I can shift around in and ideally, one with a bit of padding for my back. One of my favourites is the one non-dining chair in our dining room. Tucked into the corner by the patio doors, it was sturdy and supportive but not entirely comfortable. So I added two plump cushions — one for the seat and one for the back and now it’s a joy to both look at and sit in. I can sit there for a couple of hours, with the breeze from outside playing over my arm, when the weather’s nice. I’ve even fallen asleep in it.

We bought it from Goodwill for $10. I remember being so excited when we found it, I sat right down in it while Alan went to arrange payment. The colours of the upholstery were a bit loud for the space. I much prefer a paler, washed-out look, but the cushions cover the worst of it. It’s so nice to have something to move to when sitting at the dining table gets painful. It allows a visit, or dinner conversation with my husband to last longer than it would if I had just a dining chair to sit in.

I don’t, admittedly, spend much time sitting in that favoured chair. I spend most of my day in bed. It’s just more comfortable. I can put my feet up. But on days that I’m feeling better, I venture out, unsure of how it works to not be in bed all day. What will I do? What do people do who spend all day at home alone but don’t spend the day in bed?

How can I explain what this is like? How do you adequately describe what it’s like to spend TEN YEARS in constant pain? I cannot move but it hurts. And staying still is only a temporary solution. Eventually, the pain finds me, invades my stillness and I have to move, even though I know it will hurt more.

I don’t spend a lot of time explaining to people what my life is like. I want my friends to want to spend time with me and not just feel like they should. I don’t want to be a misery-guts, listing off my symptoms and medications every time we meet, or like the man I knew who answered the question, “How are you?” with “I’m in constant searing pain!” I mean, where on earth can a conversation go after that?

But I’m on a newish treatment now and it is sort of working for me. I have moments when I can almost forget the pain. I can be up and out of bed, with the right chair at my disposal, for whole hours at a time. Not everyday. There are still seemingly random flares when the pain surges and my brain fogs up and I retreat back to my bed to wait it out. But that was my life for many years. And now it’s an aberration. I can wait it out. I can look forward to better days.

So now, how do I explain how liberating my new treatment is for me? How do I convey the joy and relief I feel? I have a life again. And I can live it and make choices about how I spend my time and where I sit.

It is, almost, incomprehensible.

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Don’t forget, my book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.