One week of illness. The body’s reaction to medication I had mistaken for an antihistamine. Eczema, perhaps psiriosis covered thighs made walking painful. The rubbing caused the affliction to spread, my thighs to bleed. My face. Back. Neck. Hands. Few places were spared.
Then a fever of some genus arrived.
Nineteen hours of sleep one night. A forgotten amount the next. And the next.
Small pieces of verbal exchange during the week. Buying calamine and antihistamines early in the week. Answering my phone to inform someone I wasn’t available. My nightly walk to the lobby to purchase that which I’ve been sustaining myself on since I ran out of all but rice five days ago – cookies, ice cream and milk. A handful of words a day.
One full conversation. A call from Canada last evening.
Internet. No television. No visitors. Sleeping until mid or late afternoon.
This neighbourhood retires early. The sun begins to set at six.
Seven days. One room.
No loneliness. No grasping. An enclave.
Stepping forth into public life this afternoon, my senses are awakened. Little internal dialogue.
Unexpected beauty in sickness. In forced solitude.
Sunday, November 6, 2011