The day after

The sun arose and so did I. It was about 20 hours since my surgery and I was feeling good. No pain pills. No pain. No mental fog. A fleeting thought buzzed me like a mosquito: maybe I should just get dressed and go on in to work. I swatted it away. I'm dedicated, but not an idiot. I knew my body had just been in a war and I was low on ammunition. I understood. But it's not like I dig ditches for a living; move pianos; pour tar on rooftops. I sit at a desk and try to look like I know what I'm doing. It's harder than you might think.

Perhaps at this point I should explain I had only been with this company for four months. On June 26, I'd left the publisher I'd been with for 12 years and started in my new position on June 29. The department I head had been through a lot of transition in 2009 and now here was another disruption. Out of the five of us, three were new, and I was the third most tenured! What a terrible time for me to get sick. I couldn't help but wonder if the company thought they had bought a pig in a poke (and I simply must stop comparing myself to sturdy farm animals).

I'm the child of parents of the depression. "Work ethic" doesn't quite define it. More of a work command. Work harder, smarter, faster than the next guy (who, if you're really lucky, happens to be a slug) and if you can't make it to work, you'd better have been hit by a bus. I shouldn't use that analogy. It actually happened to a guy at our company (who is now doing fine, by the way). But you get the idea. There's a hearty spoonful of guilt that goes along with staying home from work.

Plus, I'll admit it. I'm a bit of a control freak. Not out of control. More like...borderline.

And I had options. Propped up in bed in my cozy PJs and fuzzy socks, via my laptop I could review proofs, follow up on assignments, annoy my staff. I began a rapid fire of e-mails: how's this coming along; don't forget about that other thing; did you fix the typo on page 27...and the old standby -- don't hesitate to call or email if you have any questions. And I told my hard-working staff I'd see them in the office the next day.

Then the VP of HR, God bless her, sent me a cease-and-desist e-mail and told me she didn't want to see me back in the office 'til Monday. "Just take care of you." Really? I could do that?

I did a fast count on my fingers (yes, I still use "digit"-al math) and determined I had five full days off. And the following week was a short work week because we had two days off for Thanksgiving. And the kids were coming here for Thanksgiving. This was good. This was very good. Five full days off the hamster wheel. Five full days of not having to put out fires. Five full days of not returning from the restroom and finding 14 blinking messages in my voice mail. Five full days of no deadlines.

Stop at the next station! I'm getting off this train!

And as I sat in bed and organized my sock drawer (well, I couldn't just be home and do nothing!), I began to realize I'd earned this. I'd earned the right to take care of me, sans guilt. And that the only problem I had to solve that day was figuring out the answer to that age-old question: where do all those errant socks go when they leave behind their poor lonely, forever-single mates?