Dust In The Wind

Several hours ago, a migraine knocked me down, the intensity of its pain placing a barrier between me and my life. I felt less than—like a diminished self. And I wouldn’t say I liked it.

Evelyn, full of energy, sat close, wanting to engage with me, and even though I tried, I barely could.

I thought of my Mom and of her on the couch after she had a stroke. I hated seeing her like that, one of the most vital forces I know in a weakened state.

My heart rate’s up. I know because I can feel it, and also, my new Apple watch is showing it’s up 20 beats from not too long ago.

I’m scared.

Give me a second while I try and bring it back down.

Giving up control of my experience is challenging. The control I have is what makes me, me. But control is also an illusion, a safety blanket that rips away without notice.

I’m safely under a blanket now, and the thump in my head no longer there. The frogs are lightly croaking through a fully opened window, and a light blue dusky sky is shining between the silhouettes of the cottonwood and evergreen trees.

And whatever happens, I’ll be ok. I may not fully believe that. And that’s ok too.


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