Best part of yesterday- using the punchingbag in the gym. Pow. Take that. And that. And that!
Such ineffective punches the bag doesn't even move a micro inch.
I had a prizefighting grandpa who was lightweight army champ and boxed his way through Europe; wish I could channel him and he could teach me how to slug.
That same grandpa got mustard gassed in France in WWI and lost all but half of one lung. He could have taught my husband how to cope if Steve has to get surgery for lung cancer.
Brought the water bottle in the apt instead of leaving it in the car. Bam.
Went to one pharmacy window instead of the other a few feet away. Slam.
Put the trach bag next to my purse to take to the gym when I looked like he forgot it. Boom. Said he was going to the office, and I thought he meant the work office, but it was the apt. office Bang.
Went to the driveway in front of the apt. office to pick him up, but he was waiting at another exit . Knock out punch.
And I am down for the count.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2...wait a minute. It's a brand new day and time to go another round.
She staggers to her feet sleep deprived and wondering what new and exciting flub ups she will find herself unwittingly committing. And reminds herself that efficient would be nice, but factory made is very efficient while hand hewn is flawed and probably better. It's all just a value judgment anyway.
Tough times. Not his fault. Not mine. Just a bad situation and lots of tension putting our nerves on edge. If it wasn't for the cancer, it would be a comedy. Actually we love each other.

Mostly I tear up what I write after looking at it once or twice. However, my inner voice says: Write. Letters on a pg. is a conduit. Through them flow understanding and compassion. Flow love, warmth, wit, and laughter. Flow truth, insight, and the Oracle of Delphi. (the rest of that notebook pg. is censored- don't worry, it wouldn't mean much to anyone but me.)
New pg. New thoughts. Sort of gory though. It's about amputation beginning at the crown of my head and slicing downwards through my heart cutting me in two. (more censored stuff; lots more)
Okay, this seems mild enough. So mild I labeled it lame and dorky. But on second reading, it seems okay. And more positive than normal:
The breath of live involves in and out. In and out. Life isn't static, is often erratic. And you feel about to loose your moorings, and drift into the abyss. But the abyss isn't nothingness; it is somethingness. Where dreams congeal and gain a heartbeat. Where infants dwell before birthed live and squalling. Where fantasy and reality collide.