Sympathy and other pains
OMG, I just got up and I think I am better today. My voice no longer sounds like an 82-year-old woman in a nursing home with days left to live, I can walk from the bedroom to the kitchen without needing to rest, and NOTHING HURTS. Well, except my ribs from being in bed for so long, but my skin doesn't hurt, my head doesn't hurt, and by golly, I'm almost brave enough to try looking outside at the sunshine. Yippee! It's good to be alive.
I notice this morning, as I'm looking at how old-lady my skin looks from virtually no nourishment other than cough syrup for four days, that I have a small, round, tidy blood blister in the inner crook of my right elbow. Which must be left over from the last time I had blood drawn, which was last fall. Blame the lack of noticing until now on long sleeves for the winter, I guess. Either that or being too busy to notice my own skin. Ahem.
"Pretty ironic," I tell Hub. "Anyone who doesn't know me is going to think I'm a heroin addict."
"Tell them it's a sympathy mark," he replies.
Indeed. A pang of longing for my distant son washes over me. I touch the little black period in my elbow and suddenly I hope it doesn't go away.