At two o’clock in the morning, I down one, two, three ibuprofens. No effect. I’m up pacing. I’m reminded of labor. Or a gall bladder attack. Times when pain pushes thoughts of any better world aside.
Ed suggests we search the Internet for some late night distraction. I don’t know. Maybe with an ice pack on my shoulder? He rolls forward an episode of Two and a Half Men. I smile. We watch another. I find that if I don’t move at all, the ice does the job. A few hours later, just before daybreak, I doze off again. For a few minutes. Classes start early today.
I admit it -- I am tired. Three classes to teach and I can’t quite write on the blackboard yet. Too much motion with the troubled arm.
But the pain’s receding and the day’s progressing and I actually dare bike to and from work, even as one hand is hardly functional and the wind is ripping at me right through the threadbare fleece of both jacket sleeves. (I should have taken the warmer coat.)
And now, in the evening I’m sitting with a friend over a glass of rosé, reflecting about all that lends itself to an evening of reflection, and I’m thinking – wow, it’s as if the Night of Pain never happened.
A tiny patch of blue sky! Yes, thank you, I’ll take it.