I wasn’t the one who moved today. And I wasn’t the one who did most of the work. So why am I the most tired and sore, and why does my house look more cluttered than Mom’s new apartment? If you looked at me and at my place, you’d swear that I just moved in and that I didn’t have any help.

We started early this morning at Mom’s old place and finished early this evening at the new place. Because John had the big trailer, we did it all in one huge load, but it took eighty-nine trips up nine floors in the service elevator at the complex to stuff all of her stuff into a much smaller space than it had previously occupied. Then there was unpacking and putting away and disposal of boxes (recyclable, of course).

In between, we brought two footlockers, two bookcases and a refrigerator from her old house to my house. Trust me when I say that I did very little of the actual physical work involved in all this. I carried a few boxes and Mom’s pillows. I did set up her computer and connect her VCR and TV to the cable outlet. I might have done a few other chores that I’ve forgotten, but my primary memory of the day was sitting.

In fact, for a while this afternoon it was all I could do to sit without moaning and writhing. My legs and hips were so sore they wouldn’t respond to neural commands in the manner I’ve become accustomed to. I told them to move a little faster and they said, “Huh! Who do you think you’re dealing with? Do you know how old we are?” Then they reminded me that they’d spent several hours yesterday walking me around the zoo.

All of that soreness was nothing compared to the absolute pain in my right hand and wrist. I don’t know how it started, but it got worse and worse as the day went on. At times it felt as if something inside my arm was on fire. Or as if something was pulling me apart. I’ve had pain in that hand before, but it’s never been this bad.

And the sitting made me feel guilty. I wasn’t doing my part, and others had to pick up the slack. I sat while Suzanne put away everything in Mom’s new kitchen. I sat while my mother was still sorting through things in her new bedroom. Usually I’ll try to pitch in even if I’m not feeling up to it, but this time I just couldn’t manage it. And I’m still sore tonight. It’s costing me quite a lot to write this pitiful journal entry.

But I do so love having two refrigerators. Eventually I’ll get things sorted out, and sooner or later I’ll figure out what to do with all this new furniture in my house. Let’s hope it’s sooner than later, because it looks like somebody’s ill kept warehouse tonight, and I don’t have whatever it would take to fix it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.