Page 5 of The Weight Of It All

Four

Pain woke me up in the middle of the night.

I must’ve tried to roll over and my muscles protested loudly.

Still half-asleep, I tapped the other side of the bed, trying to wake Graham.

It wasn’t until my hand found nothing but cold sheets that I remembered Graham was no longer here.

My heart ached along with the rest of my body, so it was kind of fitting, I guess.

I very gingerly got out of bed, letting out a long “owwwww” as I stood. Making my way to the bathroom like a ninety year old, I popped some Advil and very deliberately didn’t look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t deal with how pathetic I felt. I didn’t need to see it in front of me.

My whole body hurt. My legs, arms, chest, back, everywhere. I shuffled back to bed, still surprised to see it empty, Graham’s side unslept in, and felt the pang of longing and loneliness in my heart intensify that made all my other aches and pains seem insignificant .

I was awake before my alarm, staring at the ceiling and trying not to move.

I didn’t even have to move to know what hurt.

Everything hurt without trying. Today was going to be hell.

I had no way of knowing if soaking in the bath last night helped at all, and I had to wonder how I would’ve felt if Reed hadn’t told me to do it.

But knowing that moving and gently stretching out the muscles, along with a hot shower, would help, I made myself get up.

“Jesus Herbert Christ.”

I groaned loudly with each step to the bathroom.

And if I thought for one minute I was sore yesterday, today was a whole new level of pain.

Reaching for the shower taps hurt, the hot water hurt, trying to wash my body hurt, drying off hurt, getting dressed hurt.

Putting on shoes and doing up my laces was a feat worthy of the Masochist Olympics.

Everything hurt. Every fucking thing.

I washed some Panadol down with my coffee and somehow managed to drive to work.

I walked like I wore razor wire underwear.

People eyed me weirdly, but I was always quiet at work, more reserved, so no one in the foyer really spoke to me.

I mean, I’d worked there for six years under the chief actuary, and somehow managed to engage my brain/mouth filter, or rarely did I speak at all.

It was safer that way. I think most people thought I was unapproachable or cranky even, but it allowed for a professional distance which was for the best really.

The only person who was accustomed to my verbal diarrhoea was my personal assistant, Melinda Chen.

She was a young mathematical wiz, the eldest daughter to Chinese parents, with a brilliant mind for detail.

She had shoulder-length, straight black hair, John-Lennon-style glasses, a penchant for Korean pop music, and Japanese comic books.

She knew I was gay, never batted an eyelid, and knew I was very recently single.

I’d been a shell-shocked zombie last Thursday and Friday after my disastrous initiation back into singledom. Apparently I looked a lot worse today.

She took one look at me, the papers in her hand forgotten. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.” I shuffled past her into my office and lowered myself slowly, painfully, into my desk chair. “Shut the door?”

She did as I asked and sat across from me. Her concern was clear on her face. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head. “No, not really. Graham left me.”

She frowned, but there was confusion in her eyes. “Yes, I know.”

“Told me I was fat, basically.”

Melinda’s nostrils flared. “Well, if that’s how he treats you after eight years together, then good riddance, I say.”

Did I mention she had the tact of a bull in a china shop? “That’s not the reason I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”

She brightened. “Did you go out and hook up? Two days of sex is quite a workout.”

“What? No!”

“Oh.”

“I joined a gym. I have a personal trainer.”

“You what?!”

“I know.”

“Did you lose your mind?”

“I think so. And my dignity. And my ability to move without excruciating pain.”

“I’ll pick something up for you,” she said with a nod. “Coffee first?”

“Yes, please.” Then I thought better of it. “Just one sugar. I’m cutting back.”

She grimaced. “Ouch.”

“You have no idea.”

“The Gallagher reports are on your desk,” she said, nodding to the pile of folders that weren’t there on Friday afternoon when I’d left.

I nodded and everything seized up. “Nodding hurts.”

“We can communicate by blinking if you’d prefer.”

“Oh my God, you are my twin soul. Thank you.”

“I was kidding.”

“Oh.”

But then, because she knew me so well, she said, “What’s the code?”

“One blink for yes. Two blinks for no.”

She stood up. “Okay. I’ll be back.”

I blinked once so she’d know her statement was received and understood, and she smiled before walking out and softly closing the door behind her.

I went to take the top folder from the pile and realised, very abruptly, that my arms wouldn’t work. My wrists kinda stuck out at ninety-degree angles from my sides because apparently my shoulders, biceps, and triceps were on strike.

Melinda came back with my coffee and put it on my desk at my right. I flapped my useless hand at it, but actually reaching it involved using muscles that didn’t want to be used.

Melinda stared at me and my pathetic attempt to move. “Is that your best T-Rex impersonation?”

I blinked once and she laughed.

God, it was going to be a long day.

After a few hours of going through the job files, thankful I didn’t have to move much, I’d almost forgotten my body hated me until I tried to stand up.

And holy crap, everything was worse. And really fucking sore. “Ow, ow, ow.”

Before I could fall back into my chair and die, my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen, and was surprised to see Reed’s name. I hit Answer, then Speaker. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Reed, from the gym.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry for calling you at work. Hope that’s okay. Just calling to see how you’re doing?”

“Oh my God, I’m dying.”

“I’m sure it’s not quite that bad―”

“I think there’s a high chance I could have SPS, which is a rare disease but not unheard of.”

“SPS?”

“Stiff Person Syndrome.”

He laughed.

“Don’t laugh, it’s a real disease. Real people suffer from it. I think I could be suffering from it. Either that, or possibly Lyme’s Disease. Or Chronic Exertional Compartment Syndrome. Or claudication.”

“You Googled muscle soreness, didn’t you?”

I pouted. “Maybe.”

He laughed again, but it was a warm, soft sound. “Henry, you’re not dying. What you’re experiencing is called ‘delayed onset muscle soreness,’ and it’s completely normal.”

“Well, I’m stuck in a standing position at my desk, and my PA thinks I look like a T-Rex because my arms can’t extend all the way out.”

Now he laughed louder. “Well, your sense of humour is still fully functional.”

“Oh great, so my cause of death will read, “Died a horrible painful death from a broken body. Sense of humour still fully functional.”

“You’re not going to die. Well, not today from muscle soreness.”

“Oh gee, thanks.”

“Do you want to come in this afternoon and I can take you through some gentle stretching exercises? ”

I sighed. “No. Ignore me. I’m prone to over-exaggeration. And maybe a touch of melodrama. And it’s quite possible I can be a bit of a drama queen. Or so I’m told.” I rolled my eyes hard at that, surprised that didn’t hurt. “I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

There was a soft huff on the other end of the phone, and I could just imagine him smiling. “Keep moving. Walk around your office if you can, just slowly.”

“Slowly?” I cried. “I’m sure there are folks in their nineties who can walk faster than me right now.”

“Just keep moving,” he said again. I could tell he was smiling now. “It will help. Nothing too strenuous, just enough to get you through work. Then rest tonight when you get home, and take another bath with Epsom salts before you go to bed.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’ll see you back here at 7:00 a.m.”

I groaned, maybe even cried a little.

“Henry, you’ll be fine. You’re doing the right thing. You’ll be better for it, I promise you.”

My desk phone rang. “I have to go,” I said to Reed.

“You’ll be here tomorrow?”

I considered saying no. I considered going home and eating an entire pizza just to teach him a lesson. But then I knew I was only cheating myself, and worse, proving Graham right. “Yes, I’ll be there at seven.”

“Good man. See you then.”

I disconnected the call to Reed and answered my work phone. My attention was drawn to accounts, reports, and deadlines, and the distraction was welcome.

I did as Reed suggested: kept moving, just slowly, but moving all the same.

And Reed was right, moving was key. Because when I stopped for lunch, it was awfully hard to move again.

I sat in my usual corner of the lunchbreak room, reading the latest celeb magazine on my phone when I went to stand, only stopping halfway with a strangled cry.

Melinda was suddenly beside me. “Stand up straight, nice and slow,” she instructed quietly, so no one else in the room would hear. “We’re gonna walk out of here together, and you’re gonna push through the pain, okay?”

I blinked once for yes and she smiled. Melinda knew I hated showing any signs of weakness in front of other staff members.

I was second in charge of my division, and there was a long line of people who were vying to climb the ladder, just waiting for me to stumble, professionally speaking.

Literally speaking would just be embarrassing all round, and I certainly didn’t want to give any of them anything to laugh at me over.

It was a personal hang up of mine, having people laugh at me. I knew that, and thankfully, so did Melinda.