Since starting to write this morning’s blog, I have bounded from mood to mood. And idea to idea—most, fortunately, did not find their way to this post. I have bounced between emotions and passions. And stumbled between rage and love. Fortunately, most of the ricochets have done no visible damage. They have done little more than tear gaping holes in my compassion and fed the sources of warmth and despair. For every belief to which I have expressed commitment in my writing here and elsewhere, there is a reservoir of doubt waiting to be fully articulated. Every assertion of compassion pairs with animosity. When I demand kindness, I need not look far to find more than an adequate reserve of mercilessness. Forgiveness is readily offset by blame. No visible damage? Steel corrodes. Wood rots. Plastic degrades. Paint can cover the damage done, but surface finishes cannot protect the damage done to the substrate. Eventually, in the absence of protective care, even the Great Pyramids will decay and even the Eiffel Tower will collapse under the weight of its own deterioration.
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Friday began as a reasonably decent day. And, as it wore on, it stayed on track for a good while. A friend from church (a place I’ve largely avoided for quite some time, thanks to my oncologists’ team’s advice that I avoid unnecessary social contacts) came by for a welcome visit. After the brief visit, though, I drifted into fatigue-mode, so I took a nap. And, later, another. And then another. And the day wore on and continued into yesterday. And so on. A telephone call from my sister brightened my afternoon, with some discussion of the possibility of another visit from her in the not-too-distant future. But, then, back to the routine. Sleep.
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Perhaps my series of overly-long naps—each one lasting several hours, with shorter periods of slumber in between—finally have ended their cycles. But since I awoke just before 3 a.m.—only two hours ago—I have begun to feel very tired again. Sometime during the hours preceding my most recent awakening, I emerged from an experience that left me drenched in sweat and feeling intolerably cold. The sheet beneath me was wet and cold. The top sheet, too, was unbearably cold—uncomfortable in the extreme. My discomfort was made tolerable by putting on a t-shirt, aided by a dry towel between me and the bottom sheet. Still, after I slept a bit more, I had to get up and attempt to get warm. A long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of lounging pants has helped, but my feet and my hands feel frigid. The idea of resting my extremities in the flames of burning logs seems both horribly painful and wonderfully warming. The outside temperature is 55°F. The temperature of my hands and feet probably is closer to 15°F, on the way to -250°F. I am afraid the sun has burned out much earlier than I expected; certainly earlier than I had planned.
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Because I was up so much earlier than usual, I skipped my usual espresso and delayed taking my morning medications, opting only to feed a ravenous cat and consume water and Ensure. So, I took a break from blogging to fulfill my pharmaceutical necessities and partake of my mood-enhancing espresso.
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