I lean my head back against the airplane seat and gently roll my neck from side to side, in what I know is a useless attempt at trying to get it to stop aching. Sometimes the pain is dull, and sometimes it’s sharp, but it’s always there, reminding me that something isn’t right.

But the MRI was clear, so it has to be muscular, right? Maybe I just need to start going for massages more often, though I have no idea when I’m going to find time for that. The last thing I want to do is take more time away from my family.

I know Adam understands, but I still feel terrible that he’s having to do so much, and I’m doing so little. He tells me he knows I’m doing what I can, and that he wants me to take care of myself, and I know he means it, but it’s still hard.

My yoga practice has been suffering too, because I'm trying to spend as much time sleeping as I possibly can -- in an effort to at least do something to help restore my weary mind and body. After more than two decades of practicing yoga, I know it's really not the best thing to cut, but something has to give and I don't feel like anything else is an option, because I need sleep, and I'm not getting enough of it.

I had to be at the airport at six this morning, which meant I had to get up at four to have enough time to get through my morning routine, which I've already condensed as much as possible. I struggled through it this morning too, with a hand and arm that simply didn't want to cooperate. But I made it, and here I am, the first person on the plane -- thankful for the large amount of frequent flier miles I've earned recently, which allowed me to upgrade to first class today, so I can at least be more comfortable.

Adam's words are echoing in my head: You can't keep going like this. I know he's right, but I'm just not seeing a way out right now. I could use another vacation, but that's out of the question. So I'll have to make do with what I can. I just need to get home, and then I have a whole weekend to spend with Adam and the girls.

I've already decided I'm working as little as possible today. It's Friday, and it’s only a travel day, because by the time I get back to New York, everyone else will have headed home for the weekend. So I'm leaving my laptop in my bag, and trying to rest where I can. God bless airport lounges for business travelers. I check my email one last time -- same shit, different day -- before I put my phone away, put on my neck pillow and close my eyes. I drift off quickly and sleep so soundly that I don’t remember anything until someone bumps my arm with their suitcase while they’re deplaning and I wake with a start, realizing I’m now in Chicago, where I’ll be spending the next two hours -- so close and yet so far away from my parents.

Mom’s been doing okay since her heart attack. She’s eating better and getting out and going for walks, and I’m proud of her for making the changes she’s made. I also know that if I hope to avoid being the one having a heart attack next time, I have to find some way to continue to follow my doctor’s advice.

I have a snack in the lounge and close my eyes again, this time setting an alarm on my phone so I don’t miss my flight. Soon, it’s time to board, and I get on the plane that will take me back to my husband and our kids. This flight feels long, and so does the car ride back to our home in Brooklyn, but finally, I get there, and from the moment I arrive, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more loved in my life. Sophia jumps into my lap and nearly knocks me over backward, but I don’t even mind, because it feels so good to have her arms around me and to feel her boundless energy that I wish I could borrow somehow. Esme gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and I wonder when she’ll decide she’s too old to keep doing that. That realization makes me think about how much I’ve been missing over the last few months, and I can feel the sadness and regret welling up again. I try to push it back, because all I want to do right now is relax and enjoy my family.

Adam sees it, though, and he kisses me and then reaches up and brushes his thumb over the corner of my eyelid to wipe away a tear that’s probably closer to falling than I’d like it to be, giving me a small smile that says so much -- that he wishes there was more he could do to make things easier for me. He takes good care of me that night -- making dinner, then massaging my neck as we sit together on the sofa watching a movie that somehow both girls managed to agree on. But I know he’s also noticed my reluctance to use my right hand for much of anything, and how hard it was for me to shift my body over to the sofa, because my right arm feels oddly weak and a little shaky.

He’s gentle with me when we go to bed -- rubbing my back and my shoulders, working his way down my arms to my hands, and when he gets to the right one, I really notice how strange it feels. I think I’ve sort of gotten used to the relative numbness at this point, but for some reason, having someone else touch it seems to put a spotlight on the difference between it and my left. I fall asleep with his arms wrapped around me, feeling like all is right in the world.

And for the weekend, everything is right in the world. It’s the break I’ve been needing -- the one I hope will help me heal my hand and arm again with rest and relaxation, the same way it did a few weeks ago. But that doesn’t happen. I go back to work on Monday and continue to struggle, trying my best to push through, against my better judgment, but again, feeling like I don’t have a choice.

I switch to taking all of my notes in meetings on my laptop, because typing, while difficult, is easier than trying to write. I’d like to be in my standing chair more, but transfers are hard and a little more complicated with my arm the way it is, and the standing chair is heavier than my regular chair, which makes it harder to push, so staying in it while moving around a whole lot isn’t really an option right now. Besides, the last thing I want to risk doing is falling at work. Or falling at all, for that matter, because I’m not sure I’ll be able to get back up unassisted. That’s another thing that’s keeping me from doing yoga, even though I’m sure it would help with so much of this. It’s vicious cycle, and I don’t know how to get out of it.

I keep trying to wait it out -- wait for things to get better -- but they aren’t. I’m taking every moment that I can to rest and breathe and just chill out, but it’s not enough. Weeks go by, and my hand progressively gets more and more useless, until there’s absolutely no way I can hide it from Adam or anyone else. But I keep explaining it away as just stress, just like it was before, and I’m working on it and it’ll hopefully get better soon. Only it doesn’t.

Brian is the one who calls me out on it, after I cancelled our lunch plans and he brought food over to my office instead because he said he needed a bitch session, and he wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to stop him. Only he doesn’t really take that bitch session, because he spends the entire time watching me. He raises his eyebrow when I’m eating primarily with my left hand, and when he notices I’ve switched my computer mouse over to the other side as well, but it takes him a while to actually say something. When he does, he’s every bit as blunt as I expected him to be, just because he’s Brian.

“What’s up with your hand?” he asks, and I can see that he’s confused and concerned.

I’m not sure why I decide to be honest with him, but something drives me to tell him the whole story -- that it’s not just my hand, it’s my whole arm now, and it happened once but it got better with rest and now I’m trying to make that happen again, but nothing is changing, and I’m frustrated and scared and by the time I’m done confessing everything to him, I can see that he’s deeply worried. He doesn’t ask if Adam knows -- he probably assumes he does, and I know I’m a fucking idiot for hiding this from my partner, but it is what it is.

He does, however, ask me if I’ve been to the doctor, and I tell him that whole story, but it doesn’t take away the concern in his eyes.

“You should go back,” he says, his voice firm. “Something’s not right.”

And I don’t know why hearing someone else say it finally pushes me to take action, but it does. Still, I’m nervous about what I’ll find out. Maybe that’s why I’ve been trying to hide it; because there’s a pretty significant part of me that wants to keep pretending nothing is wrong.

I make the appointment, and I don’t tell Adam about it, and I go there alone on a Tuesday afternoon, while my phone keeps buzzing in my pocket with email notifications -- I can’t even take a few hours off without ending up buried in a neverending onslaught of messages. We repeat the same process we did before -- a discussion, a physical exam, checking my reflexes and my strength -- only this time, there’s a lot more frowning on my doctor’s part, and I can tell he’s concerned as well. He sends me off for another MRI and another CT scan, and I wait, again, for the results.

Those few days pass by fairly quickly, because they’re spent continuing the breakneck pace I’ve been keeping for months now, since clearly trying not to do that hasn’t done a damn thing for what’s going on with me, so I might as well just keep going, I guess. I know that doesn’t really make any sense, but… that’s where we are.

When I get the call this time, I’m alone in my office.

“I’d like you to come in as soon as possible, to discuss the results of your MRI and CT scan,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that there’s something else he’s not saying. I want to ask, but at the same time I don’t want to, because I’d rather remain in my blissfully ignorant state as long as I can.

I nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me, before I choke out a nervous, “Okay, sure… when?”

“I have an opening tomorrow morning at 8:30 if you can make that.”

I look at my calendar and see that I’m supposed to be in a meeting, but I’ll have to figure something out, because if he wants to see me this soon, whatever it is, it’s serious. And I don’t like that.

I don’t like that at all.