Wednesday 11 June 2014

It was only cordial.

As I lay with my cheek against the cold tiles in my kitchen, it dawned on me that perhaps it was time to clean the kick boards. You never really notice these things until you are eye-to-eye with the miscellaneous splatter. You also never notice those little sticky patches that pepper the floor. Invisible to the naked eye, but very tangible to my cheek as I peel it from the pale tile. If there was any doubt about my tactile senses, the accompanying sticky crackle as my skin slowly separates from the floor, confirms the presence of a little spot of ick. I convince myself that it's an errant drop of cordial rather than a spot of bin juice from a leaky garbage bag. 

Please be cordial.

Slowly I manoeuvre myself into what my yoga teacher always called the child's pose. Edging my way little by little, as every movement brings a threatening wave of darkness. Every millimeter a deafening roar in my ears and a greying of vision. I swallow down the vomit that threatens and continue my cautious choreography. All the while repeating my mantra. 

It was only cordial. It was only cordial.

Bent in half. Forehead on tiles. Arms folded back at my sides. Bum elegantly stuck up in the air. It is only now that I realise that somewhere between sliding down the kitchen cabinets and waking with my cheek superglued to the floor, I have wrenched my neck and shoulder. Focus on the pain not on all the potential sources of kitchen stickiness.

It's only cordial anyway.

I take a deep breath and examine my inverted world. Time to vacuum, that's for sure. And mop. Oh how it needs a mop. Between the inadvertent remnants of cooking and a Great Dane who seems intent on shedding her body weight in hair each week thanks to our fickle weather, the floor is in desperate need of a scrub. As I lie there trying not to breathe in a canine furball, I am once more hit by my desire for a H2O Steam Mop. Because that's what comes to mind when you are trying to avoid thinking about the fact that you have just passed out in the kitchen. Too much morning TV. Those annoying infommercials do their work, despite the irritating pathological excitement of the presenters.

Did you know it'll dissolve the crayon off your vinyl tiles? It'd make short work of that patch of cordial.

Slowly I unwind. A desire to be far away from sticky tiles and dog detritus is a potent incentive to movement. Not that my body wants to comply. It seems to have blinkers on when it comes to domestic hygiene and would happily remain horizontal no matter how repulsive the state of the surface it lies upon. Not that my neck and shoulder don't offer up their own protest. Pursed lips and gritted teeth are all I have left to argue my determination to return to the vertical.

Far away from that patch of cordial. It was most definitely cordial.

Head hanging down I grab the front of the cupboards and will myself up. I walk my way upwards. The rest of the word retreats to the periphery as my focus narrows to the necessities of each movement. The slow release and placement of each hand all that matters. The texture of the laminate under my fingers anchors. Finally I am standing. Legs wide apart. Feet planted firmly. Taking root in the tiles. Head still hanging. I sway before the cabinets breathing slowly, as another wave of fainting threatens.

But at least I am away from that pesky patch of cordial.

I wipe my cheek and feel my fingers stick. Sometimes all you can do is take a deep breath and stumble to the sink to wash away what you have now convinced yourself could only possibly be cordial. Of course it's cordial. It could only be cordial. That's all. Phew. Dodged a bullet there.

Please don't be bin juice.


NB I had to remove the option for Anonymous comments as I was being overwhelmed with spam despite my best efforts.  

Remember to head on over here to donate to my Clicking My Heels For Dysautonomia, raising money for the Greg Page Fund for Orthostatic Intolerance and Dysautonomia research, at The Baker IDI. Thanks to the generosity of many we've already raised over $2,000, keep donating and hopefully we can reach $10,000.

It's been a long day so I need a bit of a pick me up song.


  1. Please keep adding music!

    1. Will do Jessie. Doesn't feel right without music. :)

  2. Oh I do hope it was cordial...
    Love ya doll and hope today is better!
    Carrie, the Just Mildly Medicated gal

    1. Thanks Carrie. Feeling a little better today. Just sore. Hope you've recovered from your huge blogging event xx

  3. Bahaaha! I did laugh out loud with your play on words with 'please be cordial'. Your writing is a joy Michelle! I'm sorry your body is not a joy and you've been knocked flat again. Isn't it weird how hard wired the house-proud brain is? Of all the things to be obsessing about. :-) BTW, to my untrained eye, your tiles look fab!

    1. The power of the filter app on my phone! We have concluded that it could only be cordial. The Universe surely couldn't be so cruel as to make it anything else on top of the post pain faint. :)

  4. Reminds me of the kids book OH THE THINGS YOU CAN THINK by DR SEUSS

    There should be a dysautonomia humor book, OH THE THINGS YOU CAN THINK WHILE AVOIDING PASSING OUT ON THE FLOOR

    50 shades of being pasty white.

    You are not alone in crashing out on tiles...bathroom floors, etc

    Boy to think there was a day before I knew what the word syncope meant....

    Humor can be good medicine, especially when u feel to wobbly to do anything else..

    1. Much humour is required to deal with this. I like the idea of a Dr Suess version of all our adventures. :)


All who are lovely enough to comment should be showered with cup cakes, glitter and macarons. I promise to use my spoon bending mind powers to try and get that happening for all who are lovely enough to share their words. Those who go the extra step to share posts should really get a free unicorn. Or at least the gift of finding the shortest and quickest line at the supermarket on a regular basis. xx

Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.