Yesterday was utterly delightful. My best friend took me to Golden Gardens (and he helped me navigate the sand while on my cane) and then we got sandwiches at Other Coast Cafe and laughed unabatedly and told ridiculous stories new and old and it was by far the best day of what has been a rather dicey summer.
Today, perhaps unsurprisingly, I was annihilated. I checked my email at 1 p.m. and while I have no recollection of closing my eyes or reclining, next thing I knew, it was 5:30 p.m. I rallied, threw on a rather jaunty ensemble (I'm sick, not dead), achingly traversed the four blocks up the hill to the grocery store, shopped, slowly navigated the downhill return path, unpacked my quarry, made dinner, and collapsed.
This is hardly the first time this has happened in the last 18 years and, almost certainly, it won't be the last. And, as I've oft-noted, my folks and my closest friends have been saints throughout this bout of shingles, which is now in its eleventh week. And I know I'm improving: even two weeks ago, it would have been inconceivable for me to retrieve my own groceries and subsequently prepare a meal.
Also, as I know in every particle of my being, there are thousands of worse illnesses to have. Out of the nearly seven billion individuals currently inhabiting the earth, I have one of the very best lives.
Still, there is something deeply saddening when, in one's physically worse phases, even joyful events, no matter how well-planned and measured, trigger massive symptom exacerbation.
So, I guess, once again, all we can really do is continue to eat (mostly) healthily, be grateful for those in our life and for our rather fortunate professional opportunities, rest, and hope tomorrow is a bit better.
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