Hey Everyone! Happy Friday!
I have some exciting news for y’all. Tomorrow (Saturday the 14th) I’ll be doing a book signing at the LaGrange BookWorm from noon until 4:00 pm. I would be so delighted to see some of y’all there!
And of course since it’s Friday it’s time for the 58th segment of my fictional story, When Life Hands You Lymes. Enjoy!
It was a cloudless night and since everyone else in the house had gone to bed, most of the lights were turned off. Lying back in my hammock I gazed into the deep expanse overhead, amazed at how it went on and on. The longer I looked, the more my eyes became adjusted to what I was seeing and new layers of stars became faint glows.
At last the peace of the night evaded my body, relaxing me. There was a stillness all around me that made breathing seem easier. I put my hands behind my head. Now that I had calmed down a little bit I had to agree that there was a bit of truth to what Katie had said. These nights were peaceful, if it weren’t for what followed in the morning and what I had to give up because of these nights, there was a chance I would really appreciate them.
It was almost like I was beginning to live in a different world from the rest of my family and friends. My life consisted of a number of things unlike anyone else I knew. The doctor visits. The sleepless nights. The total change of pace. It’s not like these things were uncommon in the grand scheme of life, but in my limited sphere of influence they were pretty unique.
After several hours I meandered into my music room, sat down at my piano, closed my eyes and let my fingers play out the melody of a deep, starlit night and a lonely girl begging for answers.
Music was the vehicle that my mind sped away in, flittering in and out and somehow figuring out how to make sense of the confusing emotions that plagued my life and swallowed up my future.
“I don’t know what to do any more, God.” At last I let my hands drop from the keys. “I guess there’s one good thing about staying up this late all the time, I don’t have anyone else to talk to beside You so I’m beginning to actually be smart and realize how much You mean to me.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “This kind of life is getting rather redundant. I wouldn’t be opposed to it changing back to how it used to be.” I played out a couple of cords. “You know, You could maybe help me actually feel well for a change? Maybe I could actually have the energy and brain power to hang out with people? You could even do something small like help me be able to sleep for a whole night?” I punched my fist into my open hand and cringed as my knuckles cracked. I hate the sound.
Wandering over to my violin, I stroke the varnished, honey colored wood and close my eyes, letting the soothing melodies of past years wash through my memory. At one time I truly thought my music would be amazing; maybe even life changing in some spectacular way. Feeling my legs weakening, I sit down on the floor and then crawl into my bedroom and somehow hoist myself into bed, not worrying about brushing my teeth or washing my face, I have no energy left.
Changing the world. I study the ceiling even though I can’t really see much in the darkness and remember what I used to believe as a little girl. I thought my life was going to make a difference. I thought what I did was going to be useful for humanity. That my fingerprint would be left on the canvas of a multitude of lives, making them better.
My days were full, my life was brimming, my heart was bursting. I was playing music for charities, church or in nursing homes several times most weeks and I loved it. I felt useful. I felt needed. I felt loved. Now I’m doing good to drag myself out of the house for the Ashburg Symphony and I’ve dropped the rest of my engagements, trading them for the drudgery of sleepless nights and a hopeless future.
The ceiling slowly brightens as the dawning sun streams through my open windows and I hear the smooth purr of a car starting up and then the low rumble as it leaves; probably Dad heading to work. I drag myself out of the hollow I’ve created in my bed and stumble into my kitchenette to gag down my morning dosage of remedies.
“You’re awake.” Mom comes in, still in her jogging clothes and gives me a quick hug. “How was last night?”
I shrug, too despondent to answer.
“We need to leave for the Health Department to get your blood drawn as soon as breakfast is over, do you need help getting ready?”
I eye the brimming counter in front of me, full of disgusting-tasting herbs and vitamins. “I’ll be ready.” My voice comes out dull.
After I take my shower and get dressed I’m so exhausted I can’t even do my hair. I stand in my dressing room and eye the bed across the hall but can’t imagine walking all of the way into it. Instead I ball up some of my clothes to use as a pillow and lie down right there, thankful for the thick carpeting.
“Madalyn.” Mom’s gentle shake wakes me up and I peel my eyes open with a groan. “I’m sorry, but we have to go get your blood drawn now.” She continues shaking me until I sit up and nod.
“Ok.” I’m not sure how, but I drag myself out to Mom’s car where she helps me buckle up then hands me a ham and cheese croissant and a bottle of water. I take several bites, knowing she’ll harp on me about low blood sugar if I don’t.
Sitting in the waiting room twenty minutes later I lean my head on Mom’s shoulder and fall into a troubled sleep while waiting for the nurse to call my name. The first time I got my blood drawn it wasn’t so bad, but after they poke me time and time again, repeatedly filling little containers with my life blood, I’ve begun to despise the process. It doesn’t help any that sometimes they can’t get a vein on the first try and have to stab the little needle into me several times before they succeed.