I am contending with a weird bug. In its tool box of mischief is a little allen wrench that turns some little nerve from On to Off. Now that I think of it, it is probably not some little nerve, more like an interstate shutdown, going from right leg to left fingertips. Two years ago I had something similar which landed me in the hospital for days of Cat Scans and MRIs and X-rays. Several time Guillian-Barre Syndrome was mentioned. I was asked my attitude toward ventilators. I said to my doctor, I can’t be dying. Everybody thinks I’m an incredibly healthy person. It would be so embarrassing.
The only thing the tests showed was some inflammation on the spinal cord. A couple of rounds of steroids later I could lift my foot and unfurl the smaller fingers of my left hand. I was outta there.
Now, like a bad boyfriend the bug is back, or his ugly cousin. Gives one pause. Fosters humility, you could say, as if that was good for something. The garden becomes a big what if. What if I can’t climb the terraces? What if I can’t prune the tree? In the house the what ifs are stacked just as deep. What if I can’t manage the keyboard? The accordion?
I’ll be fine. I sit on the patio in the extraordinarily benign spring light. My garden vibrates health. Thanks to all the organic matter I’ve been dispersing for years, the soil is a teeming biome. Just a moment ago, at noon, I startled a raccoon (we startled each other), foregoing the protection of darkness to gorge on the juicy morsels easily unearthed. Losing its nerve it scurried off.
Come on back. It’s self-pick. All you can eat.