Back From St. Elsewhere
The last three months, my life has been a medical soap opera.
Over Christmas, I discovered that I had a nasty case of tendinitis in my fingers. Soon afterwards, I badly injured my shoulder. I couldn't type, write, play music, drive a car, or hold a book open. I quickly lost weight and morale. And the Buffalo winter didn't improve the weather in my head. But the worst was yet to come.
Eight weeks of intensive physical therapy resulted in no improvement. And that's when I started to get despondent. Which in my case translated to a sleep disorder. I went for six weeks with barely two to three hours a night. I learned what it feels like to be a zombie. A tired and fogged-up zombie.
I was put on a regimen of potent pharmaceutical cocktails. They just made me feel worse.
And then three things happened: I learned that I wouldn't need surgery; emboldened, I cut back on the pills and tried meditating for about an hour each day; and my parents arrived from Madras, India, to give me a psychological, emotional and cuisinal boost.
Thankfully, the recovery process has set in. And I never imagined that a full night's sleep could be so precious and sweet.