Chronic Pain
There was a split second, as he was waking up, that there wasn’t any pain.
It was that split second, every morning, that made Bucky wonder if he was making this up. If it was just looking for attention from his peers.
He doesn’t stand up, so much as carefully roll off the bed, landing on his good leg.
He stands, most of his weight on his right leg as he considers his pain level, and what it means for his class schedule today.
The outer part of his thigh burns, there’s a sharp pain in his hip. Although it’s much better today than it was yesterday. The pain runs down then outside of his leg into his foot. Rotating his foot twinges, but ultimately seems okay. He considers it, and decides all in all, pain level is a three.
Which means he’ll be going to all of his classes.
Hopefully.
Bucky walks around his small apartment, roommates not awake yet, getting ready. Relieved as his pain doesn’t get any worse.
He puts in his earbuds, and begins the walk to his first class.
The class schedule had sounded like fun. Yoga first thing in the morning, followed by an improv class. He would have a break for an early lunch, and go to his english class. A beginning dance class in the evening. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
Of course, he has made the schedule months before the semester started. Even after the semester had started, it had seemed like fun. But a couple weeks in, he fell asleep, legs aching, and the left one never really stopped. It only got worse.
He spent the last ten weeks limping around between classes, gritting his teeth. Determined to get decent grades anyway. In most of the classes.
He was half sure he was failing Yoga. Doing the poses tended to hurt more rather than loosen his muscles and allow him to go about his day. He felt bad about it, but he often skipped this class.
He arrives, and chooses a corner in the back. He sets up his mat, and waits.
It is not a good day.
By the end, he’s hurting worse, and wishes he had just skipped again. Taking a couple deep breaths, he gathers his stuff, and carefully makes his way to the other side of campus, to the improv class.
He’s only a couple minutes late.
Luckily, he had talked to the professor about the distance between classes at the beginning of the year, and he’s ignored as he slips inside. Bucky hopes that they’ll play a word toss game, or discuss the improv team's latest performance. He doesn’t want to have to stand back up. Everything definitely hurts more.
No such luck.
They’re going to start by playing marionettes. They get paired, and choose who starts what. So of course the boy Bucky has been paired with has him balance on one leg, his bad leg, hands close to his heart. He wobbles and topples over a couple times, feeling embarrassed. He is determined to make it through the three minutes though, so he says nothing. Just waits for the timer to beep.
Finally it does, and they move on. Bucky was never so glad for a pop quiz at the end of a class.
At the end of class, he went and sat on a nearby bench to wait out the crowds. The metal was uncomfortable, and it felt like the skin over his hip bones was pulling, making the aches worse. Shifting did nothing to alleviate it.
Eventually the crowds dispersed, and he makes his way painstakingly home. Once there, he grabs a granola bar from his cupboard, and sets up in his room. He props his pillows up straight on his bed, so they’re against the wall. He mounds up the blankets, and settles himself in.Leaning back against the pillows, he uses his hands to help guide his legs up onto the blankets, so that his knees have support while he sits. It helps. A little.
He grabs his laptop and starts on homework.
An hour later it’s time for the next class. He’s tempted to skip it, he aches and burns and doesn’t want to make the short trip. But he sweet talks himself into standing, getting ready, and leaving.
He's glad he went. The class was interesting today.
Home again, he grabs another granola bar and an ice pack. He sits in his spot again, working some more. The ice packs help some.
His roommates stop in and say hi. He’s lucky that they’re nice enough to believe that he actually hurts, despite the fact he doesn’t know why.
Then it’s time for his dance class.
The sitting and the ice have helped enough that he thinks he can make it. He loves the class anyway, and really wants to be there.
He’s started limping a little as he arrives. And while he enjoys learning the new steps, he burns by the time class is over. It’s days like this he wishes he had a car.
Slowly, he begins to drag himself home. He stops and leans against a fence a time or two, people muttering at him and walking around him when he does. He can’t find it in him to care.
The pain is radiating up and down his whole leg, every step jaring it more. He squeezes his eyes shut, determined not to cry. He’s gonna make it home.
He does, eventually. He has no idea how long it took him. All Bucky knows is that everything hurts. Maybe an eight or a nine.
Hysterically, he wonders if it would hurt less to just chop off his leg.
That’s the teasing advice his sister would give. Won’t hurt anymore if you chop it off, Buck.
He makes it to his room. Doesn’t bother to change. Doesn’t have the energy to try. He shoves at his blankets and carefully lowers himself onto his bed. Twisting and turning, he tries to find a position that doesn’t put more pressure on his leg, but ultimately, can’t find one.
A couple tears slip past his shut eyes. Bucky’s not entirely sure if it’s from frustration or from pain.
Finally, he gives up. He’s laying on his stomach, slightly turned onto his right side. Good enough.
His last thought, before he falls asleep, is to wonder if he’s making this up.