(The river doubled after the rains)
I have been in bed for 15 hours; exhaustion, I guess. I just don't feel like moving any more. I feel as if my life is slipping away from my body. I called in sick to work. I couldn't bring myself to get up and go in when the hour struck. I fell back asleep and awoke well after it was too late to fight the traffic in.
That is what I told myself.
I need a day to myself. I will try to read, try to center myself. To sit quietly and focus on anything other than my own life.
Sensation has not returned to my left hand. I am beginning to truly worry. At first I thought that it was just a pinched nerve. But it has been almost two weeks with no signs of improvement. I'm beginning to suspect that there might be some serious neurological damage occurring. The bottom half of my left hand is useless. Just numbness or pain, very little between, from the elbow to the end of the fingers. Restricted motion, power.
No guitar playing, limited piano.
Selavy has written that he is done with his site, that it is time for him to move on to other things. That's too bad. It will make writing here less fun. I look forward to reading his posts in the morning. It has become a part of my daily ritual, vivifying like coffee.
We went and got a Christmas tree. It's a big one. I'm sure that it is only a matter of time before I am highlighting it here. I can hardly bring myself to write lately. I had considered quitting also, but now it would seem suspect, motivated by the quitting of others. I have no quiet space to call my own any more. The computer is often used to entertain the boy in the morning while Rachel prepares his breakfast. There is always much noise, action, the need for attention, the consequence of even a moment of that attention lost, etc.
Near the boy's eye there is a bright red scrape. He hardly even seems to notice. He is as happy as ever. I am still mortified by the event. I can see him face down on the pavement, the blood coming from his lips when I pulled him up. The shock of recognition. The guilt.
Two friends wrote within minutes of one another after yesterday's post, telling me not to worry, that it happens to everybody, mistakes. Some consolation, I suppose. It is always so much easier to assuage others. It is the self that makes things so difficult. The unrelenting self.
(Rhys, learning how to close the piano)
.
