“Well, having more sex couldn’t hurt.”
Best. Diagnosis. EVER.
Whether or not my coitus is or is not in a state of interruptus is not up for discussion or disclosure (Hi, Mom!). But, clearly there’s a case to be made that more is better because I was just given a doctor’s note that suggests … no, recommends … more coital carnality.
Some is good. More is better.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the human body is built to endure. And endure my body has. It was brought my greatest triumphs to life, and it’s been torn apart by life’s cruelties. For years it starved, powered by the adrenaline of survival alone. Nurtured by time it pulsed again and filled with joy and hope, laughter and love.
But after everything we’d been through, it let me down. Unexpectedly.
Together we’ve gone from top to bottom and back again, but this time was different. Something was missing. Something more than the usual stress-and-busy-schedule-that-sucks-the-life-blood-right-out-of-you was missing. That energetic spark I had been reveling in had gone out and where I once laced up and ran to the beat of my own drum, I was suffocating under an eternal sleepiness that had eluded me for years. Friends were frustrated. My mother was mad. My children were crawling the walls. My doctor told me I didn’t look quite right.
And then, eight vials later, answers.
My engine was working overtime to fuel a system with no gas in the tank. An air compressor leaking coolant. A garden hose without pressure. Pumping air into a flat tire.
Little pills. Big pills. Medium pills. Round ones, square ones and oblong, too. A little this. A little that. More vitamins D, B and S, E and X.
Here’s hoping it’s not as tiny as the last pill she gave me …