Last weekend, all forty-eight hours of it, was spent in bed, trying to infuse health into my protesting body again. The agenda comprised reading and sleeping and more sleeping, and though at the back of my mind I worried about work, turnover, and the novel I only had five thousand words to show for, I burrowed deep into the softness of my blankets and let the sickness call the shots. My mouth and throat refused to take in anything other than hot tea, clear soup, and juice, and my eyes rejected any harsh form of light. So I lay in my room with the blinds down; somehow the lack of customary brightness was comforting. When I was new to this apartment I used to switch on all the lights first thing upon coming home, but now there is no need to flood the place with fluorescence. Even in the semi-darkness, I know where everything is.
Now that I am better, I can sit here and tell you about how taking care of oneself—try to eat something, don't forget your medicine, drink plenty of fluids, run a hot bath, get well and get well soon—can make a person feel strange, and sad, and strong all at the same time.