a gentle respite

Several weeks ago, when I'd woken from surgery, I was suddenly aware of a terrible pain gripping my body, steel claws wrapped around my torso, piercing within. I writhed, unable to speak at first, and a nurse who'd been quietly standing by commented, "You're getting squirmy there, miss." In my sedated, woozy state, it took all the strength I had to speak and so I could only murmur one word: "PAIN."

"Ah, we've got something for you," she said. She fumbled with my IV line and seconds later, I drifted back to sleep. When I came to the second time, I felt like I was in a cloud. The blankets were swathed gently around me, warm air enveloped me and special devices on my feet squeezed rhythmically -- it all created a cozy, euphoric bliss. I had that feeling you get when it's snowing hard and you don't have to go anywhere and the house is full of food and everything is okay. The pain was completely gone, replaced by happy contentment.

I've seen such psychic pain after my marriage ended that if I could have taken emotional morphine, I would have. My most recent breakup reopened the rawest parts of me.

Me: Universe, I can't take it anymore. Please. It hurts so much.

Universe: Okay, but this is only a temporary fix. I will send you someone you are already comfortable with, already know. The last two times I sent him to you, you turned him away. Don't do that this time. You two can help each other heal. You're both in a similar state, heart entwined in complex pieces of the past. He's not available either, like you, but he is a gentle person. You won't hurt each other.

And that is how I considered reopening the door for the Dark-Haired Boy.

I first wrote about him last October. We intercepted then only briefly but it was the comfort that stuck.

This morning I went out for a brief run and found myself near a lake with the sun gently warming my body and I stopped to look at the water. It was the closest I've been in weeks to having a sense of well-being again. We make our own medicine when we must.