[a. F. convalescence (15th c.), ad. L. convalēscentia regaining of health, f. convalēscent-em, CONVALESCENT.] 1. Gradual recovery of health and strength after illness.
However you define it, convalescence is boring.
It’s not like a vacation because who would choose to do this on vacation? Plus, it hurts. Convalescence is books you’ve already read and bedclothes that smell a little musty and television shows that are going to keep you from ever, ever being invited to join Mensa.
Today, I walked as far as the front gate so I could cut some rosemary, which grows there in several large bushes, courageous and utterly resistant to anything winter has to throw at them. We’ll be having carbonara for supper tonight. It’s easy–you boil the bucatini and throw together eggs, pancetta, cream, and black pepper, and top with pecorino. Since I can only use one hand at a time (the other hand is propping me up so I can stand), it’s the perfect dish. In fact, I’m already at work on the Semi-Invalid Cookbook.
(Please: Don’t write me to say that nobody puts rosemary in carbonara. I do. It’s yummy. And if Dolce Metà, despite the genetic legacy of centuries of Italian food fascism, can learn to like it, so can you, buster.)
Actually, my lombo-whatever is already much better, and I can get in and out of bed with only a few, insignificant growlululations. (And here’s a strange finding: The absolutely, positively, most painful thing? Sneezing.)
All things considered, though, I find that if I’m up, I do OK; if I’m down, likewise. It’s only the transitions from horizontal to vertical that make me wish for a small, personal-use crane or a portable heroin drip.