For want of a sandwich

Today I made myself a sandwich. Two slices of toasted rye, fig jam, turkey, swiss, pickles.

The ingredients arrived from FreshDirect this morning. I had to open the door. Unbox the groceries. Put them in the fridge. Open the bag of sliced bread. Plug in the toaster. Put two slices of bread into the toaster. Open a cabinet door, take down a plate. Open a drawer, pick up a knife…

And so on.

This time last year, each of those steps was notably taxing. I generally couldn’t make myself a sandwich in one go; I’d have to sit down, catch my breath, drink some water. It might take me an hour to make lunch. Doable, but difficult. Maddeningly difficult.

(And that, lest we forget, was a step forward from the year prior, where even “unbox groceries” would have expended all of my spoons for the day, and I would instead retreat to my bed to drink Soylent.)

Recovery feels wonderful. I’m keenly aware of all of these small pleasures.

I made myself a goddamned sandwich.

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