Recovery

The blood culture came back clear today. I haven’t had the MSSA infection in 5 days, and apparently that constitutes a cure. After 6 weeks on a vancomycin drip. And a lot of time not really moving much, because when I wasn’t tethered to an IV pole, I couldn’t muster up the lung capacity to do a whole lot.

I cooked last night – lamb chops – and took out the garbage and recycling. Today I woke up with sore muscles. Arms, legs, shins, biceps. From basic housework. And sore lungs, from the fumes of cooking – delicious as the lamb was, it left a lot hanging in the air. My air conditioning costs a lot – and I take issue with it, frankly – but if it’s the cost of breathing, it is, as they say, what it is.

So, no, I won’t be cooking much. Just as well, as it’s summertime. But still, the gap between who I used to be – shopping at farmers markets, cooking, entertaining, walking thousands of steps, skiing, working out at the gym with a trainer – and who I am now is very large. And in some ways, I feel like my lungs are in a race against climate change.

I was diagnosed with asthma in 2013, when I was supposed to go to my 30th high school anniversary. I had remade a few friends as I was visiting Mom at the Manor House. But I couldn’t go to meet them, much as I wanted to. I had to be put in a glass cage with a spirometer to assess the depth of my problem – turned out it was pretty deep, and would affect the rest of my life – and churn through inhaler after inhaler after inhaler until one of them actually worked.

This infection – which absolutely leveled me for six weeks – is going to take a long time to recover from. The muscle atrophy. The lung capacity. The energy level.

The energy level. I don’t have a caretaker – I change my own linens every week, including a duvet cover (except I haven’t, because I’ve been weak). I don’t have a cook – and I don’t want to order takeout all the time. (I do have a cleaning professional who comes at random – truly random – intervals. But nonetheless, there are moments when things…sag. Uncared for. Chores undone.) Just showering, moisturizing, and the fact that I have to do my fucking hair because it’s gray and glorious…it’s fucking exhausting.

It’s a one-bedroom apartment. But if I’m to stay in it – and I am to stay in it – these things are important. I can’t imagine having the strength to commute – 45 minutes through awful interchanges and Newark potholes.

I have laundry to put away – at least I can send it out and have it all fully folded upon return. But it means I have to put it away once done. That doesn’t sound like a lot – they sound like a luxury. They are a luxury. But my muscles will be sore tomorrow, from ordinary things. From everyday things. Because that’s recovery. That’s what it feels like.