This weekend I was in bed with the flu, giving me that opportunity to do something that I really love – which is, nothing.
I love doing nothing. And I never get the chance to enjoy doing nothing unless I'm on vacation, or in some state of unwellness or repair. There are times where I can choose to do nothing, but that not nearly as fun because I am wracked with guilt. Inside I hear my mothers voice saying, ‘It’s a beautiful day, you should be outside!’
But this time I was wracked not with guilt, but with fever. And after spending a whole day throwing up like a hung-over teenager, Jim broke out the ginger ale, and I started enjoying myself. Day two was even better. I feasted on Saltines and lay back on our six pillows, staring at the ceiling. With a cat under each arm and a dirty basset hound at my feet, I was too feeble to be concerned about hair. Blissful.
|Ed, Jed, Bed|
But the best thing about day three was that my big puffy hand with its four pork sausages was almost back to normal. I held it in front of me in disbelief as though displaying an engagement ring. But so much more precious. I could finally make out the tendons of extensor digitorum on the back of my hand. It was so beautiful. And so achingly familiar that I realized how much I’d missed it.
I also realized that my hand had deflated because of doing nothing. No driving, dog walking, typing, lifting, showering, lymphedema exercises, cleaning, opening doors, putting on pants. I didn’t even have to open my own ginger ale. Wingman did it all. I’d even given my fleshy compression garment a break for a few days and left them in a drawer. And still, my hand almost returned to normal.
So doing nothing is good for me. And it is good for my hand. When I hear my mothers voice talking about the weather, I have mine own voice with a valid excuse. (‘But mom, it's very theraputic to stay in bed. Inside.’) So now, doing nothing is part of my recovery plan, and I never have to feel guilty for doing nothing again.