It’s still dark when my eyes open. My husband, Brent, feels me stir under the covers. He snuggles up behind me and gives me an instinctive squeeze. I stretch my hand over the coolness of our sheets and let myself absorb the warmth he’s throwing. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet. “You’re up early,” he yawns. I reply with some sort of grunt. I’ve never really been a morning person. 

Lately, I find myself getting up earlier, my body willing itself to move before it has any right to. Those days when I wake up before my phone alarm can sometimes feel like the start of some kind of art film, the sky all soft hues. The world is quiet. I can pretend that I’m going to seize the possibility of the extra time before I have to leave for work to make myself a cup of tea, or do yoga, or read a chapter of a book. The reality? I’m going to scroll on my phone and be slightly annoyed that I was denied that 30 more minutes I was hoping to get before an alarm will tell me that my day has actually started.

Even though I’m up earlier than expected, I’m not mad about it today. I’m getting snugs and that helps.

“You sleep okay?” he asks and I make a face. It was better than the night before but I’m still waking up more than I would like. I just started steroids a few days ago and interrupted sleep seems to be a side effect. 

“Yeah, pretty okay. Only woke up twice. You hungry? I can make something.”

“I was gonna have oatmeal,” Brent tells me as he grabs a shirt from his dresser drawer.

“Can you make me some too?” 

“Sure,” he says.

 “I’ll get the water ready.”

I pad my way into the kitchen and two of our three cats follow. I can hear Brent washing his face in the bathroom as I fill a pot with water from the sink and squint with bleary eyes to turn on the burner. Brent’s a morning person. He’s always been a morning person. I, on the other hand, boot slowly like a computer running Windows 95. 

Once the water boils, I add the oats and Brent takes over so I can get ready for the day. The rest of my routine goes as it has lately. Open a pill into applesauce, swallow it in one big spoonful, drink a full glass of water, cut another pill in halves, swallow, and then drink more water. Shower, dress, blowdry my hair, moisturize, SPF, a little makeup, and then out the door to drive the 35ish minutes to the office. I eat my oatmeal in little bites between articles of clothing, sweeps of blush, and watering the mums on the front porch so that they don’t die. 

On the way to work, I call my mother. We talk most mornings and today, she’s trying to get out the door so she can take my grandfather for a chest x-ray and a doctor’s appointment. 

“How are you feeling today?” she asks me.

“Okay,” I say. “Nothing to worry about yet.” I mean it. So far, so good.

She tells me a story about her neighbor and I politely make sounds of acknowledgement, even though I don’t really know who she’s talking about. We keep it short and say, “I love you and have a good day,” before hanging up. I like how she always does that. 

Today’s the first day of fall break on our campus, so when I arrive, there’s plenty of parking. I cruise into a spot and walk through our campus gateway under blue skies and trees that are just starting to get a little color. It feels deliciously chilly this morning and just how a fall day should. I squeeze my arms around my torso, grateful that I remembered to wear a sweater today. I really should get more of them out this weekend — the weather is starting to turn. 

The morning goes quickly. My colleagues dart in and out of offices chatting. We have meetings, write emails, and talk about our plans for lunchtime. We’ll take a walk down to the farmer’s market that’s held in the city square every Thursday in-season. 

I love farmer’s markets. There’s something about being surrounded by fruits and vegetables that feels very much to me like being in the presence of some kind of treasure — you know, like when you were a kid and got to go into the toy aisle and were so overwhelmed by the choices that you felt like your heart might explode. That’s me with good produce. 

Even though I’ve had to have a limited diet lately because of my still-yet-to-be-diagnosed gastrointestinal issues, I think often about food and all the things I’d like to make and to taste. Being at the market sparks a wave. A bundle of carrots starts to caramelize in my mind with onions and potatoes beneath a roasted chicken with springs of thyme. A crusty baguette gets torn into chunks and dipped into olive oil. Gleaming baskets of apples become slices dipped in caramel or peanut butter. God, I’m hungry.

I grab a baguette to take home for later and walk back to the office to work. The sidewalks are quiet. I slow my pace to look up at the buildings I pass most days and never really notice. I remember to feel thankful for days like this one, for farmer’s markets, for old buildings, for places to walk, and for comfortable shoes. 

Back at the office, I sit down to start a writing project. While I type, I eat the butternut squash soup I brought from home alongside a bit of toast. It’s creamy and delicious, with bits of rosemary and sage that we picked from our garden. Another spoonful of applesauce, another pill, and another full glass of water to wash it down. 

The afternoon is packed with meetings stacked one atop the other in my calendar. I usually save meetings for later in the day so that I can use my mornings to get things done, when words come more freely and I feel like I can concentrate. By the afternoon, my energy dips and I would rather use what I have left on people instead of analytics and prose. The meetings go well. Projects are moving along, plans are being made, and in the final minutes of the day, I let myself sink to one of the oversized chairs that sits in our office hallway. My coworkers join and we shoot the shit, talking about haunted houses, theme parks, motion sickness, and everything in between. A great group of coworkers should never be underestimated.

After work, I cross the river to the next town over to meet my friend and her husband for a walk around their neighborhood. I haven’t seen them since Christmas but I always feel like when we get together, we pick up right where we left off. I know I should reach out to her more. 

We walk and talk. I wrap my scarf around me as the temperature drops and the sky goes pastel. I worry about my guts with every step, whether or not I’ll feel a twinge of pain or the burning that’s been taking my breath away. It doesn’t come. It hasn’t come yet. I remind myself to stay in the now. For now, I am okay. 

We laugh and share our comings and goings, our plans, and hopes for what’s next. It’s nice to wander with her and imagine what the future might look like. I let myself feel a little excited for what’s up ahead — travel, creative projects, some down time. Feeling excited about things is something I’ve had to work on lately — a strange position for someone who considers herself to be a pretty big optimist to be in. Months of not feeling well, of doctor’s appointments without answers, and of compromise can do that. I’m grateful that today’s a day when I can see ahead of me while staying in the moment as best I can. 

On the ride home, I turn off my radio and blanket myself in silence. I try to listen to my breath and remember the things I’ve talked about in therapy about getting in touch with how my body feels and what it needs. After a day that felt vibrant and full, I am tired but satisfied. And then I remember that this is the first time in months I’ve not felt like my insides were on fire. I’ll take that as a win. 

Pulling into the driveway, I notice the aster in our front yard has exploded into a shock of purple and there’s a cat in the window. I know when I walk in the door, three furballs and a husband will be waiting. Brent will be on the sofa, watching Star Trek. We’ll make dinner, watch some TV, and refill the bedroom humidifier. Another pill, another spoonful of applesauce, and another full glass of water before we pull the covers up and turn out the light. 

“Hey honey,” Brent says as I slip off my shoes.

“Hey,” I say. “Did you have a good day?”

“It was okay. Kinda boring at work. How about you?”

“It was a good day. A really good day.”

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Mandy Pennington is a writer, marketer, teacher, and actor from Northeastern Pennsylvania. She is a MFA graduate from the Maslow Family Graduate Program for Creative Writing at Wilkes University. Her writing can be found in several anthologies, as well as Hippocampus Magazine. Learn more: mandybpenn.com or @mandybpenn