There's a World Outside my Window.

A day in the life of a chronically ill mum. Cabin fever, fatigue, spring grass and a murder of crows.

I move from the house to the car at a snails pace, the sun feels too bright for my eyes and I catch my breath. Like a marooned fish, the air feels as though it's penetrating my lungs, (or gills if we're still talking about fish.) The daffodils that have been flowering year after year at the front of my house have died, making way for large white daisies and orange wildflowers of which I don't know the name.

It took a lot for me to make my way to the park with my kids today. They will never know how much strength it takes to pull myself upright, both figuratively and literally on the days when my illnesses feel closer to defeating me. I'm not stupid, I live with a body that is unforgiving, but despite the never ending cycle of days in bed and days trying to rebuild, I try my best to do what I am able, and today it was a trip to the park.

Park life

When we pull up alongside the park my husband decides on the pavement is a good space to leave the car. This aggravates me immediately, and not only because I spotted a mobility scooter user a few yards down the road. I point out quite righteously that ableism is what's wrong with society. I then feel immediately guilty for putting the weight of that ableism on my husband, who does so much for his disabled wife. We move the car.

Nature rush

It's windy and the sky seems to be rapidly cycling. First blue, and then the glaring white-light of the sun is overshadowed by hazy-grey clouds. Smoke plumes on the horizon. I don't normally pay this much attention to skies and horizons, or at least I never used to. I quite like them now though.

If such a book existed, The Chronic Illness Fellowship Handbook, would say: take in the good days.

What it won't say in this fictitious book, is that sometimes there are no good days. Only good hours. Good moments. Fleeting nano-seconds of observation.

I'll admit, when you haven't left the house for five days, cocooned in bed with the blinds closed, forgetting what it feels like to wear shoes, those nano-seconds that include the smell of spring grasses, the sound of a murder of crows, a squirrel scuttling up the ancient bark of an imposing oak, the chuckle of your kids as they tumble down a graffitied slide, are enough!

I don't mean its enough in the I’ll never complain again kind of way. I absolutely will complain because I feel like if I don't I'll be sure to self combust. But those small, innocuous windows, when I step outside and collide with nature after a week hauled up in my messy bedroom with only my kindle, the smell of the dog’s farts, and the sound of my kids playing downstairs for company, is enough to remind me that it’s worth summoning the strength it takes me to get the fuck outside when I can.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for losing myself in a boxset when my illnesses flare. Recent favourites include: One Day, The Dry and Alice & Jack, but nothing beats this lazy outdoor exploring.

I've got a thing for trees. I don't hug them or anything, but I do like looking at them. It's not deep. I don't overthink it or try to guess their ages and species, but I like the uniqueness of them. The shapes and the colours must speak to the dopamine receptors in my brain or something.

Before we start our short meander around the park I drink a flat white and enjoy the bitterness of the coffee mixed with the froth of the milk. A small, tan-coloured cup of joy. A little luxury I've missed during this week at home and in bed.

We don't stay ages. Just over an hour and my mask of great adventure begins to slip. I get tired as easily as my toddler, and I know if I don't get myself home soon I'll go into meltdown. My husband is feeling the strain of being the dependable one too, he doesn't say as much but I can read it on his face. His eyes roll as our kids do annoying shit, like climb walls they're not supposed to and clash into each other because they aren't looking where they're going.

Short and Sweet

When we get home the kids are hungry and the noise of their hunger cries feels amplified indoors. I can sense myself getting stressed and notice the pain in my body more than I did when outdoors. I pop something beige in the oven for them and retire to my room, again!

To some people this might depict the most boring Sunday in history. I imagine to some it could feel like a failed attempt at a family day out, but I know better. Because I know that what it took me to get outside today, was an inner strength most people don't require in order to leave their house. And I know what it took for me to pretend my body wasn't screaming with every step.

It's suggested we should celebrate small wins. It's also suggested we should aim high. As a compromise I'm sharing today's small win with you, and aiming somewhere in the middle while hoping for the best.