I went to work yesterday–a welcome return after weeks of despair and worry. The dog is much better now, alive after surgery and not kicking but walking again. She is on medications, on crate rest for weeks, but we’re hopeful, which is great, in the overall scheme of things.
So I went to work, with a great desire for normalcy and routine. I plunged into work and paced myself to catch up on all the tasks that had gone to bed and sat waiting for my return. This this, then that, then this, then that. I plunged into a project plan with great aplomb. Things were proceeding much more quickly and easily than I’d expected, and I was very very pleased.
One of my coworkers came by and said, “Wow, it looks like you’re back. Your recovery looks like it’s going great!”
And I acknowledged him. It made sense that I was so much better–after all, it had been weeks since I was last in the office and perhaps the dire circumstances had propelled me forward somehow. Wow, was I all the way better? I revelled in the concept for a little while, thinking of how the barriers, once there, were removed and I could think more freely and with less obstacles than before.
Then I got home. An exhaustion enveloped me like thick syrup. I felt cranky and tired and overwhelmed. I went to bed and fell into a restless sleep.