I watched the lives of others with a sense of wistfulness. I missed the burn of Scotch in my throat, the loose joy of a dinner party where everyone got a little high on talk. I wanted to be sloppy and fun again. “How are you doing?” Gina asked one morning. “I don’t know if I can take this anymore,” I told her. “I just want to get better. I want to

My life at twenty-eight, five years after the car accident, looked like the vision board of a younger me. I could check all of the boxes: spouse, baby, house, car, career … healthy, happy, and feeling great—with the notable exception of daily occurrences of debilitating sinus pain.

realise, suddenly, how this season of illness has rearranged my mind into a library of paranoia. I am afraid of being doubted, and I’m afraid of being found out. I am wondering what all those other people, whom I used to see every day, are thinking of me. Are they gossiping, or has some morbid discretion fallen over my name? I’m not sure which is