Square One

by Claire

Square One is a depressing place. I can’t make my own food, apart from anything that comes in its own bowl. Showering is expendable (that’s three days now), as are friends, Spanish class and any movement that isn’t slouching from the couch to the bed. Driving and walking are right out. I can’t read (the book is too heavy) and the tv is difficult to concentrate on. While eating my reheated soup my arm shakes and my hand feels so weak. At this point in time I’d rather not eat, except that I know I should, and I’d hate to let Guy down by doing the wrong thing. Typing this is a huge effort, I rest my hands and eyes for ten minutes every few sentences. Sitting up (slouching with my feet up on the couch) is making me dizzy. My speech is slurred. I called to cancel dinner with my parents and my sister thought I was ‘speaking through a pillow’. Guy was reluctant to leave me alone this morning, but he knows that as long as I can get to the toilet ok and there is easy food, there is nothing he can do. I have heart palpitations and my right eye is wobbling back and forth. I shut my eyes, but I’m still dizzy.

Yet even now, I know that this is not square one. I used the microwave. I have downloaded and listened to meditation podcasts. When I collapsed last night, I was able to make it into a chair. After my collapse, Guy handed me a drink of water and I could hold it in one hand and drink it. I could put it on the table by myself. I can type at intervals, and I can still think and choose. I can use my eyes to look around and the light from the open window isn’t bothering me too much. I am wearing clothes, and I will be able to take them off when I go and have my second nap. I can hold my phone and use facebook, and have sent a few texts today.

This is not square one.