I wrote about my will, but I don't have that sort of control. I can't control this disease, and I can't control my nature, and I can't control my desires. In the end I think I'm just grateful that things aren't worse. That gratitude is genuine, and doesn't keep me from shaking an occasional angry fist at the sky.
My scalp hurts. You may not have had occasion to learn that it hurts to have your hair fall out from chemotherapy. It does. (If you've had occasion to learn this, I'm sorry.)
I missed an appointment with my oncologist today. I was tied up at work -- busy, busy, and I had planned poorly. I didn't mind missing the appointment. There's nothing for my oncologist to say. It's all about waiting and seeing.
Tomas da Silva dropped by this afternoon, bearing gifts -- a new novel to read and a fine stack of his exceptionally delicous shortbread. I love Mr. Silva's shortbread, and only share them grudgingly. I even limit my own consumption, trying to maintain a ready supply for morning coffee.
Tomorrow's another busy day at work, and then Friday I have chemotherapy.
That's all.
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3 comments:
what's the novel? i'm always interested to know what others are reading. i'm trawling through 'special topics in calamity physics' but i'm not sure about it at all.
i hope your scalp feels better.
Hey Doreen!
The novel is Bad Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Eric recently read Gaiman's American Gods & enjoyed it. I stuck my nose into Gods but didn't see anything that inspired me to continue. Bad Omens is already more interesting to me. Tom is a good novel-picker-outer.
Also, Doreen: My sister Jane shares our love of poetry. She recently sent me a poem that made her think of me & Eric. You & Mark are having your own love adventure, and so I'll pass it along to you.
I'll post here, as most of my three regular readers can't stand poetry. It's called:
Love at First Sight
You always hear about it—
a waitress serves a man two eggs
over easy and she says to the cashier,
That is the man I'm going to marry,
and she does. Or a man spies a woman
at a baseball game; she is blond
and wearing a blue headband,
and, being a man, he doesn't say this
or even think it, but his heart is a homing bird
winging to her perch, and next thing you know
they're building birdhouses in the garage.
How do they know, these auspicious lovers?
They are like passengers on a yellow
bus painted with the dreams
of innumerable lifetimes, a packet
of sepia postcards in their pocket.
And who's to say they haven't traveled
backward for centuries through borderless
lands, only to arrive at this roadside attraction
where Chance meets Necessity and says,
What time do you get off?
by Jennifer Maier from Dark Alphabet. © Southern Illinois University Press, 2006.
what a great poem! thanks for sharing it with me.
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