10:35. Rod Steward tries to rouse me. I’ll have none of that. I hit snooze to stop the horribly ghastly wailing. And then I turn the whole thing off. I roll over. Murphy’s head was on my ankle. She snuggles up against me in my new position.

11:30. I get up to take some insulin. The windows are covered in white. The apartment is filled with a chilling white. After my insulin, I crawl back into bed under the covers where it’s still warm. Murphy, having eaten her cookie, rejoins me.

It’s warm under my three blankets. Murphy makes the best foot cozy. I start to write lists of things I could do today in my head. I stop myself and back up with a giant delete button. My blood sugars, as always happens when I sleep in, were a little high. And even with insulin in me, I won’t need to eat for a couple of hours.

I pull the blankets up to my head. I’m nestled. I’m cocooned. And if I close my eyes tight, I can shut out the blank white chilling light. The thump of Murphy’s tail on the bed makes a pleasant rhythm. If she really wanted to go out, she’d let me know. Very well then, another hour.

An hour of my bed, my blankets, my own warmth. An hour for the world to stay closed. In my bed, all of the things I have to do mean nothing right now. I will not be disturbed right now. Oom. I roll my head a little in my pillow and sleep.

SS