(no subject)
By the time I turned on my little kitchen tv set on the morning of September 11, 2001, the first tower was already in flames. I was just in time to watch the second plane collide with the south tower. I thought to myself that this was on purpose, not an accident. Someone was flying planes into buildings on purpose. Moments later I heard the deafening roar of fighter jets, scrambled from some point to the west, pursuing the final plane that would eventually crash in Pennsylvania. Moments later the north tower collapsed, and I thought of all the people who still must have been in the building and burst into tears. Outside, it was very sunny and warm for that time of year.
It's not the feeling of getting well, but the feeling of getting less sick. I don't feel well, but I feel perhaps only as sick as I felt in late April. Which is well enough to find an old friend who happened to come back to Cleveland after some time in Louisiana and walk around in a truly diverse neighborhood and drink melon bubble tea. I said, "It's so good to be back in the walking city." She seemed to know what I meant. We had been friends for years before she left for Baton Rouge and I left for Chicago.
I tell her the whole sad and convoluted story. By now, I know enough to explain exactly what happened the reasoning behind all my bizarre symptoms. After finishing I sigh. As I said years ago, getting well begins responsibility. I'm not well enough to work full time, but I'd welcome some part time work. I would have to be off my feet and rest frequently.
And I have to decide whether I want to make my goal getting back to Chicago ASAP, or whether I'm okay living at home, working and saving money for awhile. It's a year, almost to the day since I got my fateful viral infection and made antibodies against my own autonomic nerves.
Nerves can regenerate, but it takes time. I don't know what to do with my time sometimes. When I'm too sick to read. I watch the deer. The doe and her fawns. I watch her four fawns lose their white spots. I look into the doe's face and understand that she is getting old. I remember reading they only live perhaps four years.
I teach myself to discern the night sounds. I tell the crickets from the cicadas. The occasional bullfrog. One of the effects of the decline of industry in the area is the reappearance of the frogs. I haven't seen so many since I was a seven-year-old girl. I listen to the night sounds and wait for permission to resume my life.
It's not the feeling of getting well, but the feeling of getting less sick. I don't feel well, but I feel perhaps only as sick as I felt in late April. Which is well enough to find an old friend who happened to come back to Cleveland after some time in Louisiana and walk around in a truly diverse neighborhood and drink melon bubble tea. I said, "It's so good to be back in the walking city." She seemed to know what I meant. We had been friends for years before she left for Baton Rouge and I left for Chicago.
I tell her the whole sad and convoluted story. By now, I know enough to explain exactly what happened the reasoning behind all my bizarre symptoms. After finishing I sigh. As I said years ago, getting well begins responsibility. I'm not well enough to work full time, but I'd welcome some part time work. I would have to be off my feet and rest frequently.
And I have to decide whether I want to make my goal getting back to Chicago ASAP, or whether I'm okay living at home, working and saving money for awhile. It's a year, almost to the day since I got my fateful viral infection and made antibodies against my own autonomic nerves.
Nerves can regenerate, but it takes time. I don't know what to do with my time sometimes. When I'm too sick to read. I watch the deer. The doe and her fawns. I watch her four fawns lose their white spots. I look into the doe's face and understand that she is getting old. I remember reading they only live perhaps four years.
I teach myself to discern the night sounds. I tell the crickets from the cicadas. The occasional bullfrog. One of the effects of the decline of industry in the area is the reappearance of the frogs. I haven't seen so many since I was a seven-year-old girl. I listen to the night sounds and wait for permission to resume my life.