I spend the entire morning sitting upright in bed, surrounded by friends in the form of words, doing my best to hold my head still. I sip ice water and swallow Gravol as the essential oil diffuser on my bedside table hums a healing, and fragrant, tune.
I pray, mumbling words aloud, because to form them with my lips and express them in a whisper helps me maintain focus. Focus, always a challenge, made more so when the room is spinning.
I read: scripture, devotions, and a novel set in Alaska that conjures troubling memories, and with them, gratitude for the blessing of my latter days.
I scribble a few lines in my notebook, ruminating on things like love and community that I’m starting to see in a different light.
I call to my husband who is reading in the next room: “Come and pray with me.” And he does.
In the afternoon, I take my blanket and my water glass, toss back a couple more Gravol, and make a nest in the wing chair in the living room.
The Yorkie curls up next to me and Gerry goes out to do something I’m incapable of on this day. I breathe a few more prayers and read a few more pages.
The vertigo is a thinly disguised gift. I have learned some things over the course of this day. I am behind and I am missing out on some things, but I am also right where I need to be, and so it is well.
It is well.
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So many thanks for your prayers and messages yesterday. The vertigo is improved this morning. Not gone, but better. I’ll take that with gratitude.