Perhaps it is the eerily springlike weather, mild enough that I slept with the window open. Somewhere in the deep gullet of the night I seemed to wake up, and the left leg that has been torturing me for nearly a year — finally resolving to a manageable level of pain — was transparently painless, made new, the leg I had always assumed I had a right to.
Instead, my right leg was reporting in: the dull ache around the trochanter (the bony bit on the side that lots of people think is part of your hip bone but is really thigh, where your entire butt hooks on); the mean sharpness of a spastic adductor drilling well up into the groin. Groggy, I lay there wondering what the fuck I was supposed to do now. The sensations were as vivid as voices.
Later I woke up again and my legs were arranged as I would expect to find them.
Somewhere in between was the kind of demented dream we all have, in which someone wanted me to put on a necklace, and my best massage colleague somehow died and I had to explain to a husband much younger than the one she really has, listing on a whiteboard with a marker the five reasons she died, of which I can remember only (3): Drinking too much water and (5) A Broken Heart.
Actually the leg is much better this last week, and it is largely because this very same fellow professional finally got a crack at it; she trained on my carcass for two years when she was originally qualifying and went straight to the axle of the problem like a guided missile. I think I will be careful about offering her water when we get together again. More than one glass, anyway.