So yesterday’s post was a bit of a downer…
Coming off two days stuck in bed, barely able to move and too exhausted to stay awake more than a half-hour at a time, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I have days like that.
I have days when my wrists are so weak I can’t lift anything heavier than a box of tissues.
I have days when swimming even two laps of the pool leaves me breathless (I used to do two kilometres, no worries).
I have days when even showering feels like an epic journey.
I have days when talking seems like a skill I’m yet to fully grasp.
On these days, the world seems an impossibility, and the mere act of being awake becomes an achievement. I get frustrated, and angry, and upset with my useless body. And I cry a lot. And yell a bit. And fret at what tomorrow will bring.
But those days, as hard as they are, make days like today—when I could move and exist at about eighty percent—such an joy. On days like today I get to revel in my body’s ability to do things I used to take for granted. Things like chopping things really fast, holding a friend’s sweet, big-eyed baby boy, and dancing.
Because life would be so utterly horrid if I could never dance again—even if my skills lack the finesse of this guy: