broomcloset ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hitting concrete It's getting late. Actually, it's not "late" per se, but it feels as though time is rushed, as if there is not enough of it left. Sure, I have a few errands to do, but the stores don't close for another few hours, and ... and it's not as if I have a set schedule. I went to see another doctor today, one I had seen at the hospital back in November. A very nice man - cheerful and flamboyant in a subdued sort of way, if that is indeed possible. He told me to take this week and next week off work. No, how about the week after that as well? he said. Fine, I said. And he wrote me a note. And he gave me a prescription. And he told me to come back and see him on Friday. How does that sound? he said. Fine, I said. And it is. In all my mucking about in the past few months, I really think this is the first concrete step on the road to recovery. Yes, other steps had been taken in those months, but they all seemed like water droplets being thrown into a blazing fire. There, dear, that should make you feel better; now, how about getting back to work? Sure, I'd say, that should make me feel better. But I was lying. Deep down I'm sure I knew it wasn't enough. I'm sure of it. Mind you, I'm not sure of anything right now. Maybe I'm just pretending. Maybe it's time to go fill that prescription. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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