No refreshment from sleep in the slightest. Could I even get out of bed? I rolled over and reached for my cane on the floor. Eased back the covers. In slow, cautious motion I managed to sit up and move my legs over the side of the bed. My brain told me I couldn't do this. I should listen. Did I want to fall on the floor as I had in the kitchen those few days—that lifetime—ago? This time I may not get up. How many days of this until Brock realized he was wrong—that I really was sick? How many days until he returned home to take care of me? My cane positioned just right, leaning forward, I gathered all the strength I could find and pushed to my shaky feet. For a moment I hung there, testing my body. Everything hurt. The worst flu could not bring this kind of pain in my muscles. And my joints—this must be what rheumatoid arthritis felt like. Somehow I crossed the treacherous and rolling path to the bathroom.
