A very nice chat with mlr
yesterday evening reminded me that, despite my slothfulness, I still have readers (and that there still are things in my life worth reading about). I'm glad I decided to call, since I'd been in a crappy and depressing mood up to that point.
As usual, it's a mix of causes. One is the weather, which is so sticky and nasty that it inclines me towards torpor. I'm still avoiding turning on the AC which means that most of time I'm home I'm hiding in the lower level. Given that the balance of my time there is spent sleeping, it generally works out, but I'm not making good meals or keeping up with chores or going out for walks or cultivating any of the other healthy habits that help keep my emotional keel upright.
I'm also still not sleeping well, for reasons that are probably as complex as they are intractable. Last night I had a zinger of a medical anxiety dream which began with me locating a large swelling on my inner thigh and squeezing it until a syringe popped out. [N.B.: The first visible sign of Monshu's cancer was a tumour on his groin.] I was at work, so I was just going to wrap it in an old rag, toss it, and return to my desk, but I felt woozy and realised it had been long enough since I'd lost it inside of me to cause an infection and I needed to get to the hospital in case I was going septic.
Pondering this the next morning, I figured out something else that's been bringing me down: I'm terrified of having a hospital experience like Monshu's without anyone to take care of me like I took care of him. Yes, I have friends, but friends have lives. Is there any one of them who would put theirs on hold to manage mine? Sure, if this happened tomorrow, my mother would drop everything and come, but she's pushing three-quarters of a century.
I think this helps explain why I'm so disappointed in Turtle and Turtle's Wife. The latter joked a couple times earlier in the year about being a "friendly stalker", but the only time I've heard from her in the last four months is two weeks ago when I took the initiative and texted her for help with a friend whose husband was entring hospice under conditions all too reminiscent of last December. (There's yet another
reason to be bummed out now.) This is the woman that I trusted so much that I suggested giving her POMA, who insisted that I call her "family" and not a "friend". I guess maybe she meant "family" in the sense of "someone you see mainly at holidays and mostly forget about the rest of the year"?
At this point, I've pretty much convinced myself I'm going to get anal cancer and die a horrible lingering death. I try to imagine how the GWO had the strength to hold out as long as he did and I can't.