When the cell phone alarm sounds at 5:30, I wrench my eyes open and a thought pierces the fog in my brain:  One more day.

One more day through which to slog until I can sleep alarmless; but this too:  One more day with eyes to see the corporal world; one more day with ears to hear, however inadequately, the voices of those whom I love.

I pull myself to sitting, crunching those three pesky disks in my back whose deteriorated state holds together with enflamed cysts.  I think of the symbiosis of those two conditions.  Either alone would necessitate surgery.  Together, they preclude surgery and render it unnecessary.  I can live with their coupled pain.  I rise.

Darkness hovers over the Holmes house as I slide my bandaged toes into slippers, working the soft fabric around the blistered arthritic bumps.  I raise my arms into a mock yoga stretch and hit the button to let news flow into the room.

I will not win any races today, but I might get the price for endurance.

It’s the eighteenth day of the twenty-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining.  It’s Friday, people.  The Gods of March have gotten most of us through more than half the month.  Be grateful if you count yourself among the living.  Go hug your spouse, your kids, the letter carrier, and the old lady crossing the street by your office.  You’ve got the gift of another day.  For you, for me, life continues.

Little nibbles. Breakfast! Thank you, Jenny Rosen, for teaching me about the beauty of square plates.