Incongruency

I snapped my sleeping mask back over my eyes as the sun came up.
My mind veered back to those days in the hospital where the only way I could get decent steep was with my sleeping eye mask slapped snugly over my eyes—what a change. I have frequent memories of my name being called in numerous accents while their gentle nudges shook me awake for medication, vital signs, or the bathroom. I’m grateful to be home, healing, and improving. I watched myself on video. Who I saw on the screen was foreign to me. It wasn’t me. It was not the Ashley I knew. The woman I saw was swollen, uncoordinated, and fluffy. Her body was not the one I remembered or was used to. I mourned my old body and mobility. I didn’t know how good I had it. The image in front of me was incongruent with my former self-image.

I masochistically recalled the lighter college times where I was at my smallest and the freest. Frankly, I reminisced about my twenties: my muddy love life and the smells and sounds of the overgrown children we were. I thought back to my scantily-clad, science researching self. I thought back to how I felt in control of my life. I recalled how I felt powerful in my powerlessness as I barreled toward my goal of medical school.

My twenties were dramatic and privileged. My thirties will be
a stark contrast. I ended my twenties with a bang (my first stroke) and
started my thirties with…