desperance (desperance) wrote,
desperance
desperance

Friends, tobacco or bread

All things are weird, but some are more weird than others.

It's been a long time since I was this monomoniacal, so focused on a single activity or outcome. I have been like this about books, in the long-ago; I wrote a fat fantasy in twelve weeks, a shorter book in eight. One of the attributes of this new life I lead is that I thought that degree of focus was gone for good; marriage is all about multitasking, I find.

And now here we are, and the state of the Karen is all that there is, minute by minute and day by day. She's pretty much come through the nausea now; she's starting to eat again, tentatively; and as was foretold us, she is deep in fatigue. We both went to bed stupid early last night, she slept well, and now mid-morning she is back on her bed and asleep again.

She'll have to move when the cleaner comes, because all the bedding has to be washed daily while she's in neutropenia. Could be a week, could be longer; there's no telling. We are cheerleaders for the little leucocytes. She gets a morningly injection to hurry them along, but other than that there is nothing to be done but wait and hope.

Which reminds me: I have read The Count of Monte Cristo, and A Different Light, and am halfway through Kim. I thought I'd do more writing than reading, but that's the monomanic thing: I can't think about anything else. I can't think, period.

So what should I (re)read next?
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