There was a moment in time…ok, well a few moments…ahhh, in truth, maybe a few million moments …where a series of losses swept me into the undertow of despair and I lost myself. Within a deep darkness, I couldn’t feel my face or see my toes. I couldn’t find me anywhere. After the only man I had ever known…

He calls me Annie.

Vestiges of the time when emails between us were new and he actually thought that Annie was my name.

The space resembled a super-modern departure lounge at a sleek airport—the ceiling lights curving in a way that invited one to the adventures beyond.

And if I closed my eyes I could imagine I was off to Paris.

But I was embarking on a different departure, and quite frankly, I didn’t want to go.

The text was nagging me. Automated and persistent, it kept reminding me that two prescriptions were overdue for pick up.

Thank the Lord for drive-thru pharmacies. After leaving the surgical consultation, my feet felt leaden. I hardly had the will to walk inside, even though my steps would be few with the shiny new disabled placard hanging from the rear-view mirror.

The “Full Service” sandwich board directed me to the window where predictably, the young attendant shrugged as soon as I drove up, and waved the “closed” sign in front of his face. He pointed toward the front door.

I’m in the season of my life where every story seems to be peppered with the words, “Back in the day,” and a good night’s sleep means nodding off at 8:30 to that Netflix show your girlfriends have told you is too good to miss and then awakening on the couch at 3 am and stumbling to the kitchen to take…