I'm tired. It's only 5 p.m., but I'm tired. I know Jerry's death has been devastating for both me and Chip. That makes it hard to wake up in the morning. But I think, no, I KNOW I'm also tired whenever I come face-to-face with my ruined lungs. I should have had a wonderful day yesterday. I saw two of my very few and far between BFFs- one of whom was in from San Francisco whom I hardly ever get to see. And the other, my Brooklyn darling, has such a crazy-busy schedule, it's a treat just to see her at all. They arrived with kids in tow who are all very nice and were very well-behaved given they were in a new environment with a person they really don't know at all (me).
It was a pleasure to see my BFFs. A treat. But I'm so damned sad how I'm unable to participate in much of their lives or, frankly, any life at all other than my own. Thank god for the internet. That and the telephone are my only outlets to the outside world. (But the phone is often difficult if my throat isn't up for it.) (Okay, there is also TV.) And I hated sitting (yes, on my beloved doughnut) in the middle of the discussion about where they could go out to eat that was easy, close, and child friendly. I just CAN'T go out to a restaurant. That conversation made me internally weepy. I hated that this discussion was going on over me. Literally. And I just had to wait to (possibly) once again be part of the conversation. And entertaining people (even when they adamantly and vociferously tell me that they are not here to be entertained)- just happens no matter how hard you try not to. Maybe it's so subtle that no one notices I'm entertaining. But I get wiped out. And I fall asleep as soon as they head off to dinner. But in my former life, I would have headed out to dinner with them. Of course I would have. But now, it's just not possible. ever.
I'm sitting here in my spot typing away and suddenly I start coughing. It's not pretty coughing, but I know what it's about. I just need more air. Why- when I haven't moved a muscle? I have no idea. I just need more air. Period. But for people who don't live it, it can be scary. I know that. And they worry, "Are you okay?" I hate that. But I know it won't stop. Even my family get the concerned look. And they know better. But there are times when even I'm scared. (I had a doozy last night.)
Isn't this the most miserable post ever? Do I not want visitors? No! No! No! Be alone forever? No! The loony auntie in the attic? (Well, maybe.) But I now know for sure, one on one or two on one is best. More than that, it's all a mush of sound and energy, and I just can't handle it.
But yesterday just underscored my helplessness. So, children, I write and write and write.