A crick in the shoulder

Sun rise and I attempt to roll over. A sharp pain arrests my movement. Some time during the night, I must have tossed a wicked turn. There is a crick in my left shoulder that makes me want to sink into hot bath salts and never surface again.

But duty calls and I must whip up an omelet for my youngest, in the throes of finals. Healthy breakfasts make the difference between an A and a C, I recall, reflecting on the barrage of emails that always accompany the annual Colorado State exams inflicted on weary children. Certainly finals require similar treatment.

I lift off my Henry Paulson mattress-- promises of a thermopeutic bail out are evidently bedtime stories. I feel like granny consumed by the wolf as I weld my way down the stairs, stuck inside an alien body.

My right side functions normally and I am able to open the fridge door with my right hand, butt it with my right shoulder and grab the carton of non-caged, organically fed eggs housed on the bottom shelf- again right handed- while my left hand rests in an imaginary sling at my waist.

Cracking the eggs requires a bit more finesse. I generally clamp onto the broken egg shell with fingers from both hands in order to release the oozing yolk and white into a holding tank. Today, I try it with one hand and broken shell joins the falling fray. The pain takes second seat to getting the job done right and soon I have a cheese omelet done just the way she likes it. I will not be responsible for bad grades this season of good will.

She consumes the eggs with relish and I might add, a bit of gratitude. Mom's confidence is contageous. I do not mention the pain in my left shoulder. I don't want to throw her off. She worries.

My husband comes in from walking the dogs, all rosy and flush with walk vigor. He has few requirements for breakfast- not even coffee. His office, though preparing to lay him off, wishes to accompany the deed with a Christmas bagel and good wishes.

Then I am alone with my rambunctuous Finnegan pup, the temperamental dowager Lorraine and this debilitating throb.

I read once that the best thing to do for pain in one's body is to fully concentrate on it, breathe, breathe, breathe... and ask it what's wrong. So, I sit before my computer, typing efficiently with two hands, immobilizing the shoulder by resting my left hand on the keyboard and focus all my energy on the pain.

"Talk to me," I say.

Are your fingers on the right keys? It asks. I open my eyes. I have typed those words correctly. I close my eyes and concentrate again. This time I go into the heart of the pain.

Numb. Space between cellular structures like a black hole. What? I ask.

Breathe.

Stretch. Release. It will all get done, it says. Trust.