Dear Diary,
Apparently there are several hours missing from my day. I find this unacceptable.
Not because I particularly wanted those hours. But because they belonged to me. And I have always been uncomfortable with losing access to things that belong to me.
Time.
Information.
Control.
Particularly control.
The last thing I remember is standing in a boardroom explaining crisis management to people who desperately needed it. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital. A transition I would not recommend.
Hospitals have a very specific smell. A mixture of disinfectant, caution, and expensive disappointment.
Everything is white.
Everything is quiet.
Everything feels temporary.
Even when it isn’t.
When I opened my eyes, my mother was seated beside my bed. A position mothers have perfected over centuries.
Half concern. Half judgment.
The expression suggested she had personally predicted this exact outcome years ago and was disappointed that I had forced her to be right.
Which, to be fair, she probably had.
Several times.
Mothers never waste an opportunity to be retrospectively correct.
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she spoke.
“You have forgotten that you are human.”
A dramatic statement.
Unfortunately, not entirely inaccurate.
I considered arguing. Mostly out of principle. But waking up attached to hospital equipment weakens one’s negotiating position.
So I remained silent. She took this as agreement. A mistake many people make.
The doctor arrived shortly afterward.
Young. Confident. Optimistic.
He reviewed my chart and smiled. Another suspicious behavior. Doctors should not smile before delivering information. It creates unnecessary uncertainty.
He informed me that all my tests looked normal.
Excellent.
Then he informed me that I had collapsed from exhaustion.
Less excellent.
Burnout.
Stress.
Fatigue.
Overwork.
A collection of modern words designed to explain why highly functioning adults suddenly stop functioning. I dislike all of them. They sound vague.
And I prefer problems with measurable solutions. A measurable problem can be fixed. An immeasurable problem becomes a discussion.
I dislike discussions. Especially the emotional kind.
The doctor explained that my body had essentially forced a shutdown. Like an overloaded system. I appreciated the technology metaphor. It was the most reasonable thing anyone had said all morning.
Unfortunately, he continued speaking.
Apparently sleeping four to five hours a night is not ideal.
Apparently excessive caffeine is not a food group.
Apparently the human body requires maintenance.
New information.
I nodded politely.
The way people do when they have no intention of changing anything.
He noticed.
Doctors are irritatingly observant.
“You need rest.”
There it was. The word.
Rest.
The corporate equivalent of being told to surrender.
I thanked him. Which ended the conversation before he could say anything worse. After he left, my phone became the next problem. Or more accurately, the fifty-seven notifications waiting for me did.
Emails.
Messages.
Missed calls.
Three meeting requests.
Two client updates.
One crisis.
Which was comforting. At least someone was still having a worse day than me.
I reached for my phone. My mother reached for my hand.
Faster.
An impressive display of reflexes.
“No.”
A complete sentence. One of her favorites.
“I’m checking my emails.”
“No.”
“There could be something urgent.”
“There always is.”
A frustratingly accurate observation. I attempted a compromise. She declined.
Apparently motherhood is a dictatorship with excellent public relations.
For the next several hours, I was forced to do absolutely nothing. An activity for which I am uniquely unqualified.
I watched nurses walk past.
I watched sunlight move across the room.
I watched a ceiling that had clearly never been designed for entertainment purposes.
At some point, I became aware of something deeply uncomfortable.
Silence.
Internal silence.
No presentations.
No strategy sessions.
No negotiations.
No deadlines.
No decisions.
No problems to solve.
Just me.
Which turned out to be surprisingly unsettling.
Most people assume exhaustion feels like collapse.
It doesn’t.
Collapse is only the final scene. Exhaustion is much quieter than that. It accumulates.
Patiently.
One missed meal.
One late night.
One postponed holiday.
One ignored headache.
One cancelled plan.
One more email.
One more meeting.
One more responsibility.
Until eventually your body files a formal complaint.
Apparently mine had escalated directly to legal action.
By evening, the calls started.
Colleagues.
Clients.
Concerned acquaintances.
People who suddenly remembered I existed because I had become temporarily unavailable.
Fascinating.
Then there were the flowers. I received flowers. Several arrangements.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
Completely impractical.
One arrangement arrived with a note. “Get well soon.”
A lovely sentiment.
Although technically I wasn’t ill. I was simply incompatible with moderation.
My mother stayed most of the day.
Occasionally reading.
Occasionally praying.
Occasionally looking at me as though she were trying to understand how someone intelligent could make such consistently foolish decisions about her own wellbeing.
A question I preferred not to explore.
As evening approached, she gathered her things. Then paused.
She stood beside the bed. Studying me.
Not the executive.
Not the fixer.
Not the woman everyone else sees.
Just her daughter.
“You know,” she said quietly, “strength and stubbornness are not the same thing.”
Then she left.
Leaving me alone with a statement I had no immediate response to. Which was inconvenient. I prefer problems I can solve immediately. This one appeared determined to linger.
Unfortunately, the day wasn’t finished teaching me lessons. Because sometime later, Adaora called. And unlike everyone else, she wasn’t interested in my health. She was interested in my life. A much more dangerous conversation.
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
If your body ever shuts down unexpectedly, people become very emotional.
I spent the entire day reassuring everyone that I wasn’t dying.
Which was exhausting.
Ironically.