The end of the study is quickly nearing, and though my feelings are varied, they are all certain. On the negative end, I have not accomplished anywhere near the amount of work I wanted to get done. If I were on pace with the goals I had set for myself, I’d be reading my 20-something-th book, and, as it stands, I have finished only one. I should have written the lion’s share of the novel I am working on, and I find myself with little more than two chapters’ worth of satisfying material. It’s strange, because having all this time was one of the things that attracted me to the study, and now I’ve lost countless hours with little to show for it.

In spite of all of these shortcomings, I can’t be disappointed about the way things have gone. Merely completing this study will be a brilliant feather in my cap. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and I’m surprised that my will power has gotten me this close to the end. It wasn’t until I had been in bed for six weeks that I was sure I could finish. I adapted to artificial circumstances and got comfortable in a place I never thought I’d find comfort. The mental preparation I did before lying down has been enough to carry me through to the point where I’d better start thinking about my real life again.

A lot of people have asked me if I have a celebration planned for after I get out of bed. After being bedridden in a hospital for three months, my standards for a celebration have lowered significantly. My ideal day, my celebration, will be on the first morning I wake up in my own bed. I’ll take a shower, put some jeans and a shirt on, get in my car, put some music on, and drive to the bookstore, where I’ll get a cup of coffee and walk around for a little while. That was a pretty typical day before this study started, and I’ve been deprived of those creature comforts for so long that I won’t take them for granted, at least for the first few days out of bed.