First, my laptop died. All my writing — novels, blog posts, journals, even packing lists — lives on my laptop. Losing that tool was like having an arm cut off. I would think of something to do, then realize I was missing most of the parts of myself I use to do that thing.  Bewildering and frustrating.

Before I could adjust to my situation, my husband got sick. I got busy helping him get better: making chicken soup, buying ginger root, pouring him another cup of tea, keeping him company. It was easier than solving my “now what?” dilemmas about writing (although I’m pretty sure if I’d gotten some paper and a pen, I could have written something).

Then, as he was getting better, I got sick, and that was the final straw. I find sinus headaches incapacitating. I can read or watch TV, but only if it isn’t too challenging. Any independent thinking seems impossible, like someone replaced my brain with frozen slugs.

Once I realized I was truly sick and needed to take a few days off, I let go of my writing goals. I could have worked on my novel or drafted a blog post, but the effort would have been extreme and there would be no way to tell if the results were worthwhile. (I find a slugafied brain a very poor proofreader.) Better to declare myself on leave and let go of my usual goals until I was well again. I hated doing it, but it gave me room to rest, relax, and heal.

My convalescence is over. My new computer is up and running, with my recovered files on board. Best of all: I am in the mountains for a writing retreat, with my days open to a schedule of my own devising.

I want my top priority this week is to be my writing, but even now I have to compromise. I will write, probably a lot. But I must also continue to heal. I have to rest as well as write, and it pisses me off that this is the case.

But I’m happy that I get to write again, and even happier that the slugs are out of my brain.