Half awake in the early morning darkness, the first thing I'm completely aware of is a sharp, stabbing pain at the base of my neck, just above my right shoulder. I move cautiously and it gets worse, a crick of the vilest sort has settled in during the night. My grandmother would say that I'd "slept wrong", an odd turn of phrase she often used to diagnose morning after complaints. I knew it would vanish in a day or so but that it was also going to make the current day grim, impairing motion and forcing me to pay attention and accommodate it. I cursed as venomously as I can at this early hour, then spend extra time in the shower letting hot water pound at the pain, and finally massage in a generous dose of Asperceme. By the time I'm dressed and ready to leave, it's eased off some - I'm not going to have my usual take for granted flexibility but it's not going to be the initial agony either.
I don't have my mother or grandmother's arthritis or my daddy's labored lungs. My knees still work normally if sometimes a bit stiffly, my back is strong, I can get down and back up again with only the occasional need for something to pull on. The routine aches and pains of getting older have been kind to me, visiting rarely and never staying overlong. I wonder at this good fortune and why I deserve it, am grateful for it, and frequently pray it endures. Mind over matter, Nana used to tell her swollen hands and feet and her bent back and then grimly go about her work, wincing and cursing but never surrendering. Well, I tell myself, It's a Monday.
I never noticed the flat tire at all, just got into the old Cruiser and went my merry way. After a mile or so I realized that the noise level was off the scale - I thought at first the muffler had fallen off and it was then I pulled over and discovered the two stunningly large gashes in the rear tire, each the size of my fist. Luckily, I was only a block from a familiar service station and twenty minutes later I was on my way again with a promise to be back that evening for a new tire. It's a Monday, I told myself again, These things happen.
The patient schedule was full and overbooked in some places but I was optimistic about the work day. We were prepared and ready to go, all the paperwork done, the cash drawers balanced. I could never have imagined that our youngest nurse would double over in pain with her first xray, be in the ER by nine and scheduled for surgery a half hour later with a ruptured appendix. All the organization in the world wasn't enough to compensate for her unexpected absence and by mid morning we were all running around like headless chickens - except of course, the doctor, who calmly and cheerfully flitted from patient to patient like a pollenizing bee in blue scrubs, happily unmindful of the stress and chaos taking place to make his day go smoothly. Great morning, girls! he called as he headed for his mid day nap and we broke for lunch. Not wanting to tempt fate by daring to wonder what else might go wrong, we gave a collective sigh, then locked up and took a half hour's respite.
Mondays are first born bullies, needing to strut, show off, flex their muscles and willing to kick you when you're down. I'm pretty sure the other days of the week feel guilty about being related to them - any self respecting weekday would.
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