It clutches you with feathered down and brings you to distress. That sinking feeling, that bone deep tired, the sickly person’s daily stress.
Your waking charge is “put on clothes” or “shower if you dare”. A far cry from the triumphs that once left your lips and pierced the air.
In place of ladder climbing feats you fight side effects and lack of rest, shattered bodies and shattered dreams disturb all attempts at nightly rest.
You get up and the make the bed each day so if you can’t do more, “At least I made the bed” you’ll say, and quietly shut the sickroom door.
From the outside you look fine, though less sparkly than before. It’s hard to laugh, to smile, to work, to play, when you live behind the sickroom door.
So you rest your head on feathered down and close your eyes once more, to spend another day locked away behind that stupid sickroom door.