But she doesn’t want to.
She’s tired. She’s sore. She’s had a bad day that began at three AM when her last insulin pen slipped out of her fingers and landed on the dining room floor. Miraculously, the glass hadn’t shattered, but the end of the pen, the bit that controls the dose-dialer, broke off and disappeared. So, she now has a full vial of insulin she can’t use, and a three day wait for more.
At least she’s type 2. She’ll be fine for a few days. Really.
God, she’s so tired.
She’s tired of being at her mother’s, tired of being away from home, away from her own schedule, away from her husband and dogs. She’s tired of hearing that the contractors haven’t started, tired of picking colors of paint and types of tiles she has no faith will be installed, and tired of feeling so disconnected.
But mostly, she’s also physically and mentally exhausted. She’s working more hours than she wanted to while away. She can’t cope with her mother’s fear of air conditioning. Everything hurts. Everything feels off.
She misses her dog, the one who went to Heaven in March.
She hasn’t slept without the help of medication since the storm in February, and it’s starting not to work so well anymore. It’s only meant for two months of use. She’s on month four.
She’s losing weight, but not in a healthy way.
But when people ask…
She smiles brightly and lies to their faces, using the two words every woman knows and every woman uses:
Except… she’s not.
Written for Brief #10 of Like the Prose 2021: Denial