Becoming, Again (Day 2)

(Or: Somewhere Between the Couch and the Cosmos)

Time is weird.
I’m calling this Day 2, even though the calendar swears otherwise.
But my cells, my soul, my spinning little chemo-altered molecules—they insist Thursday was Day 1.
So Day 2 it is.

Yesterday’s question: Do you ever wake up and wonder where YOU went?
Today’s realization: apparently, “becoming” requires traveling somewhere else entirely—no luggage, no return ticket, just a brain on shuffle.

Chemo was short, mercifully.
I even came home with my jet-pack—my white-cell superstarters ticking quietly on my arm, a tiny biochemical fireworks show set for 1 p.m.
And then… I disappeared.

I slid into bed like melting butter.
Shivering, sweating, freezing, burning.
Fan on. Fan off.
Every molecule arguing with its neighbor about the thermostat of existence.

Time folded in on itself.
When I woke, the light had shifted but nothing else had.
I drifted to the couch, a parallel universe where gravity hums louder and blankets weigh more than regret.
I didn’t eat. I barely sipped water. I just floated in and out of body, like my brain had clocked out for interdimensional maintenance.

Around 6:30, Luke appeared—steady, sun-warm—and said, “Come sit by the water.”
He might as well have said, Come back to Earth.
I sat beside him, blinking at the ripples like they were breathing.

My mind was mushy honey. My thoughts, ping-pong balls in zero gravity.
Winnie the Pooh would’ve understood. He said it loud and clear “Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

So yeah, I was here yesterday. Physically.
But mentally? I was off somewhere between the stars and the shivers. Maybe that’s what becoming really is—your brain goes on a field trip to rearrange the furniture while your body holds down the fort.

I wonder what version of me will step off the bus next time. I wonder if there will be a green sofa,