Recovery

The week I was home from work passed extremely slowly, a high contrast from the usual insanity.

I spent my days parked in front of the tv. I watched Deal or No Deal. I watched Celebrity 50 Worst Break-ups (or was it 50 Best Hairdos?). At the lowest point, I watched Golden Girls, with an Oprah chaser. My mom stayed with me for a few days, helping me cook and carry things, and the two of us became addicted to extreme makeover shows.

I focused on just getting through the day. Tasks as simple as putting on socks or getting out of bed were small nightmares. I avoided sneezing, laughing and coughing. I had new respect for the human torso. You don’t realize how large a role it plays until you have four little holes in it.

The days grew longer after my mom went home to LA. Mark came over when he could, but during the day it was mostly me on the couch with the remote control, the cat sleeping nearby. I verified, then reconfirmed the finding that cats do absolutely nothing all day.

Now, just a couple weeks later, I am nearly back to normal. There are still some tender spots, but I roll out of bed in the morning without thinking. I no longer brace myself before a sneeze. I am reimmersed in the tumult of work.

Best of all, I’ve been reunited with my favorite foods, the foods of all nations. For months, I couldn’t eat things marked by the little red pepper symbol, or described as having anonymous ‘spices’. ‘Nothing hot or complicated,’ my doctor had cautioned me, which meant that foods from India, Thailand, New Orleans, Ethiopea, Korea, Morracco, Mexico, and Malaysia...all the foods I loved, were off limits.

My insides had some catching up to do, but I’m happy to have rejoined civilization. Massaman curry has never tasted so good.