When you are sick in bed over a period of time your life becomes a tiny pinprick in the volumulous sheet of life. You can't do your normal activities, you don't see your friends that often, the amount of energy required to take care of basic needs is all you can muster and sometimes not even that. This latest flare has been mostly pain and swelling and dizziness, so the little oasis around my bed has become my home with achingly difficult trips down the stairs to the bathroom as little as possible. My drugs and ungents and supplements are lined up next to a large bottle of spring water, my magazines (Vanity Fair and the New Yorker and Oprah and Nutrition Action) are piled high on the right side while books by Hening Mankel, P.D. James and Guy Paget are piled high on the left side. When it snows, I can witness it out of my little garret window under which I sleep--I especially like the swirling kind--it's like being in a snow globe. At the foot of my island is my clock radio for many hours of NPR (thankfully election obsession has replaced "All Iraq, all the time") and my groovy Apple powerbook sits on one of my pillows, it's low growl a nighttime lullaby. I can monitor work email and write procedurals for my job without moving too much and research which ream of pre-hole punch paper will cost the least, per case. There is a box of CVS wheat crackers for nausea and pill popping, some minty gum in case I meet someone to kiss in my dreams and a few chocolate kisses to quell my cacao addiction.
I can hear the Arlington Catholic high school kids in the morning as their parents drop them off--a symphony of closing car doors--and when they are dismissed for the day at 2:30p--dancing voices in all candences, all excited and bright. On Tuesdays the person who plays the bells at St. Agnes practices at noontime and I swear I can hear selections from "The Who" among the hymns that ring out over the municipal parking lot.
I have a container of shea body butter, two Glade scented candles (in fresh linen), and a picture of my mom and brother on the window sill. There's also a dead fly that Poopy must have killed a while ago laying between the window and the screen, but I don't have the heart to fish it out.
I keep the room cool and use a soft light bulb in my Walmart halogen lamp to create a cozy ambiance. On the other side of the room is a seasonal affectiveness disorder lamp that I turn on for 30-40 minutes a day aimed straight up at the ceiling for that beach effect. The white light streams into every corner of the room, often allowing me to locate stray socks and lost earrings.
I can see my cell phone across the room where I flung it after being on hold with Social Security for 30 minutes this afternoon. I can also see an old toolbox that I inherited in one of my old used cars--the friend who sold it to me gave me a toy gun to brandish in case I was ever accosted. Maybe I'll use it down at the Social Security office but it may dilute the merits of my case.
On a shelf are a giant bottle of lemon flavored cod liver oil capsules (watch out for those fish burps!), a pink marble pig I brought home from Ireland and Poopy's ashes in a cherry wood box. There's a small, brightly colored rug on the floor in front of the closet and on it is a stuffed puppy--a labrador, which some healer recommended I get.
If I lay in one spot on the bed I can see the other little garret window in the other room where the sun comes in in the morning and through which I can hear the smaller children playing in the alley in the afternoon. The lucious orders of fresh Indian food waft over from the Punjab restaurant and the lilting voices of the young waiters can be heard as they take their cigarette breaks.
Many a battle has been fought from my perch above the municipal parking lot, and the current battle with the disability people is being waged from my sealy posturpedic, which is covered in a bright white sheet with yellow circles that mom got from Ikea. My pillow cases are a deep matte red and my duvet is a hypoallergenic, psuedo down concoction in quilted fucshia. When the chills come I wrap myself in it like I'm pita filling, tucking in the edges and when the fevers rise I spread it out and lay on top of it right under the window.
There's a beautiful purple leather pouch hanging on the wall, embossed with a picture of the african continent and a strangely placed scone light fixture right next to the door.
It's an odd place in which to dwell, my cell, my comfortable chamber, my petite gaol, a place to imagine the possibilities of being fully healthy again, a place to mourn what's been lost, a place to hope for healing sleep, a place to feel safe, a place to feel apart. No mirrors to reflect the misery, no mirrors to refract the light--let it stream in fully.
