My birthday was on Saturday and the best present ever, in addition to this decadent chocolate cake my BFF made me, is feeling like a real person again, not the hollowed-out husk of a human being I was a month ago.
Last week saw me back on my bike, pedaling through crispy leaves over to my kid’s school where I’m now a volunteer librarian. I can run up my stairs again instead of crawling. Literally crawling. Precious, hydrating spring water no longer tastes like the dregs of the Charles River. I’ve ceased to approach my meals like an entire pack of hungry wolves, desperate to fill the gaping void in my stomach and my soul. (Oh, who am I kidding? I still do that.)
Other changes: the children aren’t required to talk in whispers and sign language anymore (I foolishly lifted the ban on screaming only to promptly reinstate it). Scrolling down a web page doesn’t make me nauseous. Everything else doesn’t make me nauseous. The vomiting has stopped, except for the other day when I suddenly threw up for no apparent reason right as I was walking out the door (what was up with that?), but then I felt better. Normal everyday activities don’t seem like impossible, monumental chores. Except for vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms, which always seem like impossible, monumental chores.
But how I really knew things were taking a turn for the better was a few mornings ago when it was time to get up, but I refused, and Husband laid his arm across me and started applying gentle but unmistakable pressure about the bladder area. Then, when I protested and rolled over, he lovingly placed his foot in the small of my back and slooowwwwwly extended his leg all the way out until I slumped onto the floor.
Yup, things must be getting back to normal around here!