Spring Break feels like it’s done gone and got itself broken.

My body is tired. 

But I’ve got some stuff done. I’ve exercised most days. With my continued recovery from mastectomy and reconstruction surgery, pretty much all I can have are leg days. 

So I’ve walked. I’ve done body-weight-only bearing workouts, no arms or chest muscles involved. I’ve squatted in the yard and dug up weeds, slowly and gently, if there can be such a way to remove stubborn, embedded weeds that have grown like a carpet over my flower bed.

I should really take some ibuprofen. Tonight I probably will, along with a Benadryl. For one, that pollen is getting thicker by the minute. It looks like God has sprinkled popcorn salt over the cars and on the porch, and it sure feels like I’ve had a good dose up my sinuses.

And for two, I need my random thoughts to stop when it’s time to go to bed. 

My mind is not in a worried state. Instead I feel like I did when I was a kid. When I couldn’t sleep, my brain in ADHD mode, I’d go bother my parents.

Go back to bed, they said, stretch out straight so you’ll grow tall, and think good thoughts.

So I try that, but I’m tired of stretching out straight. I’m ready to lie in a somewhat fetal position on my sides again, the better to help my aching hips, but my boobs say no, it is not time yet. 

I am not tall. Taller than average, maybe, but my sore legs are short. The better for squatting in the yard, maybe.

I lie on my back, and I think good thoughts. Somehow the old JCPenney in the Jasper Mall comes to mind. I see the customer service section in the back of the store, and I remember the spring and summer catalogs and the glorious Christmas Wish Book. I see the restrooms, the crappy shoe section, and the way the aisles cut through the various sections of the store. Home goods here, men’s clothing there. And then I remember the Worthington brand and the best dress pants ever made, and I think I’ve gotta find a JCPenney to stock up. 

But no, you want some more of those cropped and frayed wide-legged jeans that look like they’ve been caught in a band saw.

Agapanthus.

I want to fix my porch planters tomorrow, and I envision the arrangements. I’ve got my thriller, my filler, and my spiller. Pinterest that if you don’t know what it means. These are my random thoughts, and I’m too tired to explain things today.

Thriller, filler, and spiller reminds me of the tabloids at the checkout line at Wal-Mart. There aren’t nearly as many tabloids anymore. I don’t think Woman’s World counts.

Has social media filled the tabloid gap? Are people so gullible as to not see it? 

Fake news.

Agapanthus.

What is an agapanthus? Some plant I saw yesterday, I figured, either at a store or online while researching thrillers, fillers, and spillers. The name is embedded in my brain as firmly as all those weeds I pulled earlier. I will look it up in the morning.

Agapanthus sounds like Krampus, but not really.

Merry Christmas.

Chicken and dressing.

Ham.

And I drift off, after resorting to box breathing as do the Navy Seals, to maintain any semblance of focus.

I’m in deep sleep when I hear the cat meowing. She’s not made it to the bed, but she’s close. There she sits beside the outside door, answering the call of the wild, talking to the door as if it’s going to open magically.

To the shop you go, Zelda. Go find some mice. 

To the bed I return, with all my random thoughts, but they’re not as intrusive this time, and I begin to drift off.

It’s 3:00 am, and I’m brought back to full consciousness by the delicate sound of the “Sprinkles” alarm. Why haven’t I deleted that alarm yet? It’s been going off every Friday morning for the past four weeks, when it was set to ensure I’d wake up in time to shower one last time in Hibiclens before having major surgery. 

Now I’m hungry.

Agapanthus.

To the recliner I go, where I got some of the best sleep of my life in the two weeks after surgery. Sleeping on my back was no problem. I had a throne of pillows and I slept like a mastectomy queen, sans pain medicine except for ibuprofen. No Percocet needed after leaving the hospital.

I grab a pack of unsalted saltines (how’s that for an oxymoron, and that’s what I get for sending Youngest Daughter to get in on the Friday deals at Gateway while I keep my place in line) and a flavorless mozzarella cheese stick. 

I keep the lights off, so as not to disturb Coco the shih-tzu, who runs from me when I pick her up to put at the foot of the recliner. I’d run too, if my sleep were so disturbed. It’s either this, or traversing the “great divide” as I call it, which is the end table between the recliner and the couch. It remains covered in books and papers and notebooks and remote controls and is a major fall risk for clumsy shih-tzus making their way in the dark.

When the dog realizes what’s happening, she’s more than amenable, curling up at my feet like the old days of just two weeks ago. She doesn’t even beg for my food. She returns to deep sleep immediately.

Unlike myself.

Agapanthus.

I will eat, but I will not enjoy it. It is mere sustenance, and I eat it with all the enjoyment of a Navy Seal taking in needed calories before or after a mission.

It is only then that I will sleep, but I will still think of agapanthus upon waking.

Which, by the way, I will explain. It is an African lily, native to South Africa. The pictures I found showed beautiful blue blossoms, fit for cutting or for being the thriller in a potted arrangement. It prefers very warm climates. It probably wouldn’t grow well around here.

Unlike all my random thoughts.

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