An earthquake rattled through the early morning, catching me mid-dream. It was just a small one, less than a 4 where we live. In seconds it was over, with my sleepy husband reassuring me with his hand in mine. I was kept awake with flashes of Haiti, worried about the safety of my family in far off cities. Mama had just returned to her house the previous afternoon. She left because she had a cold and was so concerned about the risk of infecting me, she rushed off without a kiss or hug goodbye.
Today is the first day I don't feel like myself. Wilbur is always concerned, always watching: counting how many bites of food I take, reminding me to take my medications, constantly feeling my forehead and taking my temperature, cleaning everything in sight with his Lysol wipes. I feel like a burden, even if Wilbur protests that I am not. He puts on his smile and tells me jokes and makes up stories to tell me. I know he tries hard to keep me cheered up. We can't do much other than stay home today, and we're bored. I feel that today is more different than ever before. I'm weak, invalid, and everyone just worries and protects me. I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself.