Tides

I reached for the alarm on the new purple cell phone that sat on my nightstand, knowing that I'd already used my allotted one snooze for the day. I slid my finger across the screen, silencing it as I sat up and slowly, ungracefully, swung my legs over the edge of the bed. It's been exactly fourteen months since my first surgery, but as my hand lifted to cover the throbbing on the left side of my skull, just above my ear, not so deeply buried under its scar, I remembered that fourteen months really isn't that long.

I became more aware of the extent of the pain with each step toward the bathroom, my left hand holding its head in place, my right rubbing at my tired eyes. The light in the hallway, brighter than I remembered, gave way to a pleasant darkness in the unlit bathroom, which I held onto as I brushed my teeth, my thickly shadowed reflection barely visible in the mirror. Shaving my legs in the dark seemed inadvisable, so I winced as I begrudgingly flipped the switch on the pale green wall before turning on the water.

The Advil I'd taken upon awakening finally started to kick in mid-shower, but even walking into work, I felt the pain with every footfall. I tried not to let it show in my face as I braced my body for each wave. A voice inside my head whispered that when I didn't have a job, I could have stayed in bed and tried to sleep through it. I only let myself long for that time for a second before issuing what I don't think will be the last pep talk: Erica, listen. You can do this. It really doesn't hurt that much. You already took Advil, so whatever you're feeling is not real. You're making it up. Stop making things up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You don't have time for that. Game face. I wasn't making up the pain, but telling myself it wasn't real somehow helped... I think... At least I was able to continue on productively with my day. Two more six hour rounds of Advil and I'm feeling pretty good. The headache lingers, but it comes and goes like the tide, calling my attention to my past, reminding me who I am and what I can do, before releasing me to the present.