I was going to complain about the side effects of antibiotics, but they aren't remotely funny. Sometimes I think there is something drastically wrong with the medical profession that encourages you to need several more drugs to get rid of the effects of one drug. I can't help but wonder if I shouldn't have bothered going to see the regular doctor because I'm not sure if I feel worse after taking all of those pretty pills she gives.
On a lighter note, Frank's sick. I told him I was taking him to the sporting goods store. When we got to the dooctor's office, he called me several names, but in he went.
I'm baking banana bread today. With no sugar added. I'll be all better in a day or two, but Frank will play miserable for another 2 weeks. I can break out the hidden the food dye now. He probably won't notice.
¶ 8:02 AM
Frank caught me on the couch with a glass of blueberry.
Fortunately, I didn't spill anything. But I had fallen asleep. I don't sleep that much, and I'm not used to it. I'm more comfortable with that light jittery feeling when you've only had an hour or two for the third day in a row, and now when you lie down you are simply too exhausted to relax and unwind, and dissolve into sleep. I do nothing when I am ill. I let the socks and dishes collect where they may, and order any dinner that delivers. If I am clever, I can hide the delivery dishes. Frank thinks I can rotesserie chickens at home. Silly man.
But he is insisting I see the doctor. I wonder which one will be there this time?
It's time to have some cordials and tuck myself into the couch with the remote. My throat hurts. And Frank is going to insist I go to a doctor when he finds out. Doctors do not really ever understand what is wrong with you. They will just um and er and give you pretty pills until you go away. They think they know what they are doing, and they even think they are doing things for the good of society and for the individual, but let's be honest here. They giving their best guess. Drug companies are looking to make a profit, and it's easier to give you more drugs for anything possible that may appear wrong, than actually find out what the heck is wrong with you and *fix* it.
It's just so much nicer to sit on the couch in a blanket and sip a cordial and some tea, feel sorry for myself, and wait for my body to get itself sorted out. I'd like to do to do that even when I'm not sick, but of course Frank doesn't understand that. When he is sick, he's laying in bed moaning about dying. But if he enjoys the moaning, who am I to begrudge him?
I just hope he doesn't notice my off feeling and make me go to the doctor. I can't make him go. So the hypocrisy is annoying.
¶ 12:47 PM
The silence stretches between Frank and myself like a broken car radio with the miles flying by.
It is only after I have been speaking to other people that I realize how quiet it is between us. We have said everything of interest already. There is no need for new thoughts or commentary. I do not care for politics. I know nothing of his work or those with whom he works. He does not care to know the minutae of how much laundry soap I used while removing his poo-stains. I do not need to tell him the toilet is not flushing properly. He will quickly find that out for himself. The weather does not need discussing. I do not go out often; he reads the news. He does not ask about my day. I do not ask about his.
We only talk when he is angry. So I prefer the silence. I listen to my Tony, and I remember what might have been.
¶ 2:05 PM
I think I am too like her- not fond of company and not easy to get to know. But the few chances I have to see her and actually chat with her are always interesting. I get more insight into her character.
We talked of religion, as my nephew was getting his first comunion. That branch of the family are the only Catholics we have in our mismatched collection. I hadn't realized how open minded Gram was- she stated what I had said earlier- may the boy always have something to believe in, and follow the teachings properly. We agreed that we could not understand God, as no one really can.
And we talked of smoking. When I was about 10, I crawled into her lap and asked her to stop smoking. I told her that if she loved us and wanted to stay with us, why was she doing something that would definitely kill her? But she didn't stop smoking then. And within two years, her husband would be dead from cancer. She managed to stop smoking for 2 years, age 88 to 90. But then she decided she wanted another cigarette, and she went and bought a pack. So she still smokes, maybe a pack every other month. But at 92- who cares if she smokes? She's oxygen-dependant sure, but gosh. It's not going to kill her young any more. She isn't young. Let her have her pleasures.
And I don't know how much longer we will have with her. Her face has always been a roadmap of wrinkles in my memory. But now, the wrinkles have fallen forward and there is smooth skin back around her ears and the edge of her face, and I can see the top surface of her skin is yellowing more than a piano. She was tired from a kidney infection, and I left her when she wanted another nap.
But I am glad I went to visit her. I think it made my day, and I think it made hers.
¶ 10:27 AM
This rather schizophrenic blog was started as a fictional blog, written by a character of a story. I've since taken it over for writing personal stuff I don't mind sharing with anyone who cares.
I am also writing thoughts about writing and stories that move me.
Anything not marked might be just me, Georg, posting as myself.
It's just this blog, okay? Some of it is story. Some of it is animals. Some of it is knitting. It's a blog.
For story #1, I do recommend starting from the beginning of this blog if you haven't read this before.
Please start at the beginning.
I did mean it to be for http://www.nanowrimo.org - but I never got quite got it done under the wire.
Jeannie is the author/main character.
Frank is her husband. Poor man.
Tony is musician/singer.
Angie is a teenager, who was Jeannie's best friend. Now currently dead.
Honestly, there is no connection between Jeannie and me and Frank and my husband.
Frank and Ether. This will be much weirder than Frank and Jeannie. I like the name Frank. No one expects a Frank to lie.
A desert story. Anna is the main character. Currently there is only her little brother and an old servant, and a mysterious redhead.
The necro story. A young necromancer heads off to the Hated Ones to find her trousseau.