Today was the first day I've felt even remotely normal since I started Cymbalta. The weird twilightiness is gone and I haven't felt queasy all day, but I still have this weird lump in the back of my throat. My inner sci-fi nerd likes to imagine it as my brain stem swelling to adjust to the new chemicals. Otherwise, I'm okay. My mood has been excellent and I haven't had so much as a whiff of anxiety. It's too early to correlate those factors, but I'm still grateful to be on the mend.
I do miss Patrick something terrible. Not so much for me, but for HIM. He's staying in an exceptionally religious part of Israel, where it turns out nobody ever touches outside of shaking hands. And he's not allowed to shake hands with women at all. My poor love is terribly hug deprived and since he's hands-down the best hugger I've ever hugged, that's a travesty. To quote one of the basement dwellers, Patrick's hugs feel "exactly like dad hugs are supposed to feel." His hugs are legendary and verily missed. Seven days and counting till the poor man gets home and back to his regular daily intake of physical affection.
In the meantime I'm working and momming and playing endless rounds of Go Fish with Genoa and still catching up on dishes from Sunday's (epic) brunch. Tomorrow I see SamnTerry and then I have sleepovers planned for the kids for the weekend so their friends (and mine) can come hang out. Even in the absence of romance, I feel so lucky to have my brunch family here for friendship and affection and snuggles. Patrick might be visiting the holy LAND, but our community, our Church of Brunch? it's the holy GRAIL.