The Days Are Short

Though we had a disconcertingly warm October, the ever-shorter daylight hours betray the fact that it’s firmly autumn. Indeed, it’s still dark for several hours after I get up—before the crack of dawn, as it turns out—and the sun’s already set by the time I finish dinner (despite my habit of eating abnormally early).

The days have been metaphorically short, too.

For months on end, I felt as if the waking hours dragged on. They were little more than something to tolerate so that I could make it to when it was somewhat appropriate to go back to sleep.

This was especially true during my not-able-to-move-or-talk-or-eat-or-drink phase. Lying in that hospital bed, frustrated by my total lack of agency, I wanted nothing more than to escape from what seemed like an endless expanse stretched out in front of me. I’ll save the specifics for some other time and/or venue, but there was, in reality, little separation between my dream world and my “awake” one. It all blurred into a vast kind of hellscape.

Things are different now that I’ve regained a great deal of normality (or my version of it, anyway).

It’s amazing how quickly the days slip by when you have stuff going on. Not that my life’s a particularly exciting one—it isn’t, by most people’s standards. I do, however, work on various projects, see friends, talk to loved ones, rest, take care of recovery-related tasks, hang out with my husband. Write. Craft. Engage.

As we enter November(!) and face fewer and fewer hours of natural light until the winter solstice, I look forward to preparing for the holidays, cozying up, and continuing to build on the progress I’ve made.

The days are short, but I have, with any luck, many more of them ahead of me. Thank goodness for that.