The room in the Double tree by Hilton is dark. I have been awake for quite some time; long enough to shower, shave, get dressed, and putter around in the dark while my IC sleeps. Hotel rooms, by and large, ignore the possibility that more than one person—each with different sleeping and waking habits—might occupy a room. So, the morning person is forced either to impose his habits on his room partner or slink about in the dark, bumping into furniture and cursing under his breath.
Last night, we attended the Joe Bonamassa concert in the Robinson Performing Arts Hall. Bonamossa is a highly skilled guitarist. But the sound level in the hall reminded me of a film I saw many years ago. The Shout starred Susannah York and Alan Bates, among others, in a story about a man who could kill people (and sheep, as I recall) with the volume of his aboriginal shout. We left early, but not just because my ears were bleeding and the skin was peeling off my forehead in sheets: no, my IC was ready to leave. We walked next door to our hotel room and made an early night of it. We ate dinner and had drinks at the hotel before the concert; we had decided to treat ourselves last night. Avoiding a drive home to the Village in the dark was a prime motivator.
Anyway, here I sit. It’s just past 6:30 and I suspect I will be here awhile, sitting alone. This one-fingered typing does not suit me, so I will stop soon. Later today, I have more CTs scheduled (this time after drinking delicious barium). Tomorrow, I start the day with a teeth cleaning, spend the afternoon back at the oncologist’s office, and end it at CHI for the second half of a sleep study. I am growing resentful of the health professions.
If I could slip out for breakfast now, I might…but, no, that would not be right. So, I will sit and ponder life.