I’m stranded in Taper Town, stalled between well-enough-to-be-bothered-by-my-growing-to-do-list and in-too-much-pain-to-attack-it.

The street sign reads:

Up ahead, there’s an emergency box: Break glass for prednisone.

A few of those and I’ll be feeling fine. My hands will work again. My feet will stop throbbing. My energy will surge, and the new and worsening pain in my left knee will surely recede.

But so will the progress I’ve made with this taper so far.

I’m playing the blame game in my head again. Do my symptoms indicate a flare? Are they prednisone withdrawal symptoms? Is my recently increased activity level the culprit? That voice in my head interjects: Does it matter?

One step. Two steps. The box is within arm’s reach. Three steps, my hands in my pockets. No, no, no, no, no. Four steps. Five steps. The box is out of sight if I don’t look back. I can see the intersection from here. The street sign isn’t clear, but they usually aren’t here in Taper Town. Such an unmapped place. Six steps. I keep my gaze forward.