Monday, September 19, 2011
Last night, a storm raged outside. While the rain poured from the sky, a storm was brewing within me.
I woke up at 2:34 AM, writhing in that same familar pain. I slept through the storm outside--it was my internal storm that woke me from my sleep.
It was excrutiating, just as it always is. It may be familiar, but it never makes it any easier to endure.
I quietly slipped out of bed, walking on my tip-toes and softly shutting the door behind me. Hoping the dogs and husband didn't hear me.
I flipped on the lights in the kitchen and reached up to the top shelf in a high cabinet for my familar bottle of Advil.
My fingers fumbled for the smooth white bottle.
It wasn't there. Could it be?
Could I have been so foolish as to use the last of my own personal monthly savior without replenishment?
I started to cry. I sat on the kitchen floor, pathetically sobbing.
They heard me. Everyone came running---on four legs and two.
Licked my tears from my face. Picked me up off the hard, wood floor.
And showed me where the Advil was: on the top shelf, in the high cabinet---laying on its side.
It's nice to know that in the midst of pure agony, there are dogs to lick my tears and a husband to gently remind me that I shouldn't give up so easily.
Sometimes, in our desperation to solve our problems, we don't look close enough.
There were six Advil inside that bottle; I took three and went back to bed.