Some of you might have noticed that I’ve been MIA for the past week. (If you didn’t notice, then keep it to yourself. It’ll just depress me.) The reason for my weeklong silence is that I was down with pneumonia. Way down. Like “temperature in the triple digits, followed by a day in the hospital” down. It pretty much sucked.
Recovery was a long and painful process. I felt weak, exhausted, and useless. Forget about writing or working out. It was all I could do to change my underwear every day. The first time I left my apartment to get the mail, it took me twenty minutes and two breaks so I could catch my breath.
Still, life goes on. I had fallen behind in work, school, and writing, and I wasn’t going to catch up by lying in bed all day.
So you can imagine how it felt when I woke up on the day I was scheduled to return to work and saw this.
That’s right. My first day back at work just happened to coincide with the first major snowstorm of 2012.
Talk about adding insult to injury.
So, instead of snuggling under a warm blanket with a hot cup of tea, I recuperated by driving over an hour and a half in the middle of a frigging blizzard. I’m from Mississippi folks. I have many talents, but driving in snow is not one of them. It usually involves me hunched over the wheel, squinting into the night, and creeping along at 30 mph for about a mile before I pull over to the side of the road to let other, more confident drivers pass. It’s a vicious cycle: drive for about a mile while cursing the weather, and then pull over so I can curse the people passing by, my job, and life in general.
So, add all that to a persistent cough and sore throat, and you can see why I haven’t felt up to writing anything.
By the time my workweek was over, I felt tired, empty, used up. All I wanted to do was go to bed and stay there for a month. Instead, I wrapped myself up in a blanket with a cup of tea and my favorite stuffed animal. (I was sick. Don’t judge me.) Then I did what I should have done a week ago.
I called my grandfather.
My grandfather is a professional storyteller with a voice like black velvet and a talent for fashioning worlds out of thin air. He’s also my own personal form of Prozac. I know that, no matter how bad things get or how stressed I allow myself to become, there is nothing that can’t be fixed – or at least made bearable – by just one hour of getting lost in the stories of our people.
I don’t know about you, but for me stories provide tonic for the soul and wisdom for the mind. The best thing in the world is knowing that I can make things better with just five simple words:
“Amafo, tell me a story.”
(Thanks to everyone for his or her kind words during my illness.)