Roadkill with Oatmeal Brain
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I make plans. Life smashes plans.
Last week I had social plans, lined up, all in a row.
Because of trauma dredged up by news of my son, I wanted to cancel all the
plans and binge on self-pity. But I was determined to suit up and show up,
knowing I would enjoy outings with my good friends despite myself.
You know how sometimes when you awaken, you don’t feel
tip-top? But a cup of coffee makes things better, right? In the hour between
get-up and the-car-is-leaving-now, I felt “worser” and then “worser”.
With reluctance, I handed my concert ticket to Michelle and
said, “Give it to someone, anyone, I don’t care, I can’t go.” On the way out of
town they kidnapped Monica, Ana’s niece, and it happened to be her birthday, so
wasn’t that perfect?
At home, I had a miserable day, not focused on anything but
feeling like roadkill-day-one.
Roadkill-day-two was supposed to be therapy-in-the-pool day.
Trying to fool myself that I felt better, I realized I felt worse.
You know that quiet little voice that sometime niggles in
your ear and that is easy to ignore? Exactly. That one. Eventually, I paid
attention to her and dug my test kit out of medical supplies. When does
Positive feel Negative? No, I am not pregnant. I have Covid. I had managed to
dodge that bullet through the whole pandemic, until now.
Today, I would not mind if positive meant pregnant. There
has been one Virgin Birth. Why not two? My daughter assured me there have been
thousands. Thousands claimed, that is.
I quick-told Michelle and Ana that I am poison. They
quick-told Kathy, Crin, and Carol to turn around and go home. No pool therapy today.
We’d all been together for a Thai feast, all exposed to one another.
Roadkill-day-three I tried to fake that I felt better. It
didn’t work. I’m used to pain. I can handle pain, no energy, congestion, fever,
chills, swollen glands and all the ugly rest of it. Instead of visiting an
archeological ruin, I am one.
The hardest thing for me is oatmeal brain.
I like oatmeal, steaming in the bowl, laced generously with
brown sugar, drenched in a lake of milk.
Oatmeal brain feels like cold oatmeal got dumped cold into
my brain pan and congealed into a lumpy mass, no sugar, no milk. Incapable of
thought impulses. Incapable of creativity. Incapable. Rendering me into a state
of stasis.
Roadkill-day four found me no better but I wanted to do just
one thing. I had not lifted a finger for any chore since being stricken with
the plague. Sweep the floor or wash sheets? I don’t sleep on the floor so that
was a decision requiring no brain.
The thing about roadkill is that on the first day one knows
that the flat slab once carried life. By day four, roadkill resembles a dirty
piece of ancient cardboard. Oatmeal brain turns crusty around the blackening edges.
Day five. Can desiccated cardboard be freeze dried and
rejuvenated later, kind of a Resurrection?
The days rolled on monotonously. Until one morning, like
magic, I knew my body was being reconstituted.
My brain? Since I’m using breakfast food as an analogy, think
of it like a progression. Oatmeal to scrambled eggs to the time honored brains
and eggs. Might not get any better than that!
Sondra Ashton
HWC: Looking out my back door
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