As I lay in bed last night, I wondered if I was feeling an earth quake.

It felt like the ground was shaking underneath me. My shoulders and my back vibrated, my legs felt as if they were shaking and my arms felt like they were jelly.

When the sensation passed, I lay there for a moment before I realized that my husband had not moved. It had not been an earth quake; it had been my muscles. They had been shaking and quaking and didn’t need the Earth to quirk and shake to move of their own accord. When the body quake started again, I rode it out, trying to feel what I could, to embrace it instead of stiffening myself against it.

To fight it would bring more pain when it was finished.

So I chose to ride it through the second time and the third time. I could feel my muscles shaking into the mattress. I have never felt anything like before; the muscle spasms have always been centralized. One area at a time. Never before has everything shaken at once.

I am reminded of the great SanFansisco Earthquake, and the cracks that ran through the streets afterwards; great open spaces where streets were ripped apart.

I stop to wonder if now, after the body quake, there are cracks on the inside of me.