I already lived a small, quiet existence: meandering through the aisles of supermarkets and libraries, long-distance bestie text chats, noodles dates, Netflix, FaceTime calls with my beloved nieces, the older one already tiring of compulsory social niceties, needing to be nudged to acknowledge me over the phone, the younger one still learning how to focus her eyes on the faces in front of her.
But in the last few months my life has narrowed even more. My days are consumed entirely by the management of pain. I live by the schedule of whatever medications I’m on as my doctors juggle back and forth about how best to treat my condition. I have three of them tending to my current problems–enough attention to be flattering if my issues weren’t so serious, or so expensive. I count down the hours until I can take my next pill, which may or may not provide me some relief. My meals are timed to best pad my stomach lining so the powerful painkillers don’t burn a hole through it. The pain, and then the drugs, determine when or whether I will sleep. I never was a big drinker, but now I had better not have even a drop of alcohol. The same, oddly, goes for grapefruit. I don’t walk much, definitely don’t run anywhere. Some days I can barely shuffle.
These are very, very quiet days. Days so quiet that as I was waiting for the kettle to boil this morning I attempted to mimic an Instagram treat. My wallet (and limited mobility) won’t allow me to make it to Davelle anytime soon, but there’s always jam and cream cheese and bread around.
And funny attempts at tiling them up on a piece of toast. This was, to be clear, more amusing than delicious. But that’s what I’ve got room for these days. A little silliness before I swallowed a very bitter, potent pill.