Purple Pencil

I’ve written very little since January 2021. I stopped because of a long commute to full-time work which ate up ten hours of each weekday. Eighteen months on, I’m working less but still not writing. Then, at the start of winter on June 3, I caught COVID.

It was nasty.

Breathing was tricky because I’m a chronic asthmatic. There was a constant wheeze, a small, creaking rattle in my chest after each coughing fit. That made me doubt if I would recover. Worst scenario images played out in my head. Self-help was needed because I had to stay positive that I would get up and active again in a few more days. I needed real belief in wellness when I was grappling with a blinding headache that wouldn’t quit.

My husband looked after me. Staying in another room, he’d deliver anything I needed. It felt like someone shoved a scouring pad deep down my throat, so I wasn’t hungry. He mostly dropped off bowls of cereal, but never visited for long. Keeping his distance, there wasn’t much conversation. Thankfully, I didn’t pass on coronavirus, but I wouldn’t have managed on my own.

Too sick to tolerate daytime TV, I read prolifically, bit by bit. Just a couple of paragraphs or pages between fitful naps. Over eleven days, I delved into a lot of stories. Reading material had piled up under my bedside table for the rainy days that never come, for holidays too crammed…