It took two injuries in three days.
For an hour, the floor became the only place I could safely be. My Mister, mother, and boss all encouraged the recline. Horizontal I stayed. They helped me to bed. Eventually, I hobbled to the easy chair. With laptop. With novels. With quiet punctuating the growl and jabber of construction workers welding outside my window. With the first birds of spring punctuating the quiet.
This is not a familiar mode. Stress begets sweat. When the engines are firing — even more so when they are flagging — the default setting is to slam the heavy bag or pound the streets. Dance, climb, lift, go go go.
Now it’s this: Two howling muscles on the right side — lumbar and erector — keeping company with the perennial scapular pain.
Now this: Only stillness.
Sleep comes. Caffeine goes. Sleep comes harder. Eight hours. Then nine, then ten. I struggle upright through a fog like rheum, fumble for the Advil, then surrender again. Flannel sheets. Sweet relief. An afternoon nap gives way to a labyrinthine descent into oblivion.
Three days of sleep nine years overdue. Sleep I haven’t know since Bug put down roots in my naive womb.
It took two injuries.
It shouldn’t take even one.
This stillness belongs.
I inch open the door. Who knows the cost?
Welcome. Please come in.