Bed rest. I knew the term, hadn’t tried it in ages, though. Maybe after the fist covid vax, I was down and out. This time it was food poisoning that took me out, knocked me flat. Like I needed to learn a particular lesson. The hard way.
My spouse who lives elsewhere came over to help out. After getting me a necessary treatment at an outpatient clinic he stayed over night, cleared out my fridge and cabinet of anything remotely overdue, ran the dishwasher, then stretched out on the sofa I don’t believe anyone had ever slept on before. But he made it work and actually slept well for a change. Go figure.
Day 2 of recovery. Long day of mostly bed rest, that unusual opportunity to go limp, bundle up and stay put. It feels like laziness when in fact it is simply the body trying desperately to right itself, to reassemble its strength, not to speak of replenishing reserves. Still too early for that. A body talking to itself, speaking is gentle reassurances: you’re going to be alright. This, too, shall pass.
And pass it must. The next day will arrive, the one where no safety net is prearranged. You claim you’ll be back. resume your activities like before. Hard to imagine at this moment. Hard to fathom the surge of energy that will need to make itself apparent between now and then. ‘Teacher awaits surprise revival’ could be my own headline. Closer to reality, we’ll see how it goes, we’ll play it by ear and hope for the best.
Surely I am both wiser and worse for the wear. Tomorrow’s another day.