Morbidly Pleasant

I'm sitting in my room, facing my computer.

To my right is a window.

I open it and let in all the southern light that I can.

Zoe seems to find joy in early morning sunlight, and I do, too.

     It's a recent discovery for me - before I wanted the shades drawn, isolating myself inside my man-made cocoon of artificial lighting, creating my own solstices, deciding when daylight ends or begins.

All the rest of my life is based on artificial supplements: my oxygen, my digestive enzymes, my bacteria fighting abilities, even the ability to effectively cough has been assigned to a machine.  Why not shut out the sun?  It will probably give me skin cancer one day anyway.  But why, then, does it make me so happy?  When the day is new and I'm resting in between the cool sheets, my body still hot from sleep, I feel energized, motivated; I feel "normal".  And then I roll over, that familiar urge to cough strikes without warning and I shoot up into "cougher stance".  I reach for the kleenex to spit and drop it into my bedside trash can.  I have everything I need within reach.  I hate that my life has come to this point, being so medically handicapped, that I have to alter my living environment to accommodate the necessities.  The nice thing is, once I'm thoroughly exhausted after doing my morning treatments, I can sometimes crawl back into bed and pick up where I left off sleeping or reading, with a napping buddy at my hip.

It's just morbidly pleasant.