I’m struggling with my iPad this morning, typing with one finger. I took my notebook to the shop yesterday. Cheyenne, the tech to whom I relinquished my technological soul, promised she and her crew would repair my computer. She promised it will be ready for me on Monday at 11. I hope I’m ready on Monday at 11. I was okay yesterday morning, but I cratered again yesterday afternoon. I fell asleep in my recliner again and awoke in time to attempt to eat dinner. I managed a bit. And I ate more ice cream, which is packing on enough calories to keep my weight up and increasing. That’s actually a little disappointing, though probably healthier than losing weight.
The doctors want me to down 8-10 glasses of water a day. I’m lucky to go through two. Swallowing is hard and my chest feels like it is about to explode when I’m able to swallow a mouthful. Enough of this BS.
I’m ready for something different. A different environment. A different attitude. A different lifestyle. I wonder whether life on a Caribbean island would suit me? Or, perhaps, life in the desert of New Mexico or Arizona? I think I’m too old and set in my ways to adapt to a foreign country, though it might be gentler on my psyche than living in the throes of a psychotic narcissist’s daydreams. Not mine. 45’s. The bastard.
I wonder whether I will recover my old self after my cancer treatments? Will my body return to its old, comfortable ways? Will I ever breathe the way I once did, the way I did before an entire lobe of my lung was removed? Will my esophagus ever heal enough so it doesn’t hurt to swallow? Will the pains I feel in my chest and back and gut ever cease? None of my pains are excruciating, but they’re sufficiently disturbing to make me feel like I’m no longer me. They’ve displaced who I was and replaced him with an intellectual invalid whose body is no longer mine. Instead, my body belongs to an old man who can’t think clearly. If I could scream without waking the neighborhood and without destroying the remnants of my lung, I would. I need more than a road trip. I need to relocate to another planet, a place ablaze with molten bones that light up the universe as the universe erupts into its last screams. There. That should have emptied the rage, should it not? But, no, it simply ruined an otherwise unhappy morning.
This is the problem with one-finger blogging. It elicits rage. It causes angst and anger and madness unmatched in modern times. I will stop this or it will only get worse.