Oct. 24th, 2017

desperance: (Default)
All things are weird, but some are more weird than others.

It's been a long time since I was this monomoniacal, so focused on a single activity or outcome. I have been like this about books, in the long-ago; I wrote a fat fantasy in twelve weeks, a shorter book in eight. One of the attributes of this new life I lead is that I thought that degree of focus was gone for good; marriage is all about multitasking, I find.

And now here we are, and the state of the Karen is all that there is, minute by minute and day by day. She's pretty much come through the nausea now; she's starting to eat again, tentatively; and as was foretold us, she is deep in fatigue. We both went to bed stupid early last night, she slept well, and now mid-morning she is back on her bed and asleep again.

She'll have to move when the cleaner comes, because all the bedding has to be washed daily while she's in neutropenia. Could be a week, could be longer; there's no telling. We are cheerleaders for the little leucocytes. She gets a morningly injection to hurry them along, but other than that there is nothing to be done but wait and hope.

Which reminds me: I have read The Count of Monte Cristo, and A Different Light, and am halfway through Kim. I thought I'd do more writing than reading, but that's the monomanic thing: I can't think about anything else. I can't think, period.

So what should I (re)read next?
desperance: (Default)
Properly, falling is Karen's job, and she makes a much better fist of it than I do. We can't all be second-degree black belts in Aikido.

However, Karen is mostly lying down these days, and not well situated for falling; so to keep up the Brenchley/Williams average, I took the task on myself. It's not hard, when the sidewalks around here are so uneven. Unfortunately they are also concrete, which is hard. So I smashed my lovely glasses irreparably, and cut myself about a bit; and came home and Karen looked at me anxiously and declared that I needed to see a doctor. So I joined one of the other groups on their bus to the clinic: where I was seen successively by two nurses and three doctors in an increasingly elevated hierarchy. There's a cut right at the corner of my eye, and they were worrying about that and whether it might need a stitch or two. They've decided not, probably, ish. At the moment some deviously snipped pieces of sticking-plaster are holding the edges together; they'll look at it again tomorrow, and see if that's doing the job.

Meanwhile, I am mostly wearing my reading-glasses for everything. I do have spare regular glasses, but those are single-vision, and I'd got so used to progressives: I think I'd rather have everything blurry beyond five or six feet than simply not be able to read at all.

And in other news, soddit. Also owie. Much of me is barked or scraped, jolted or twisted or just plain downright sore. I am very resentful.

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