Wednesday. December 26, 2001

"The state of man: inconstancy, boredom, anxiety."

Blaise Pascal, Pensées

I try to stay out of FFP's way as we get up. Because he is really working.

I mess around with a few things. I've promised my mom I'll come over by 10AM and call doctors. I'm prepared to be frustrated. You would think she would learn. She has not, though. Plus, there is nothing interesting to do promised today so she feels much sicker. Not that I don't believe she really feels sick. Not that I don't think something could actually be wrong with her. I'm just saying. That's the way it is.

When I get over there, she is finishing getting cleaned up. I call her GP and tell them she won't be coming in tomorrow and explain the situation. Then I call the office of the pulomary specialist and get transferred around. I think I'm pretty clear. However, I get a call back asking the full name of the referring doctor. I'm pretty sure I gave it, several times. I'm pretty sure that his office called because they called me. Finally, around 2:30, I get a call that the pulmonary guy will gather all the chest xrays taken of late including the one from the hospital and have a radiologist make a report. Yeah, I mentioned Saturday that this would be a good idea. What a good idea! I exclaim. What wonderful medical brilliance. (Not really. I didn't say anything to make this gal on the phone hate me.) She says if she "doesn't call back Friday then to call her on Wednesday." Um, OK. I tell her I won't be here.

Meanwhile, we have distracted my mother a little with a jigsaw puzzle, with sorting through her drugs and getting her list somewhat more accurate. I'm never sure. We have had lunch. She ate chili and ice cream. Then she decides she feels really bad. She takes Tylenol and goes to bed. She wants Dad to call someone from church and tell them she is sick. He doesn't see the point. She wants to watch TV from bed but she has switched the TV off channel 3 so it doesn't work. I fix that one more time. She moans. She doesn't like the news about more waiting on doctors to call. So...I convince her to take a Darvocet. I tell Dad when she can have another. I tell him to try to sedate her and, if she has trouble breathing, take her to the hospital. Sigh.

I go home. I'm a little depressed about it all. I know I should feel lucky. Happy. But it seems hard. I read a card from a friend who has a serious cancer. I should feel lucky. I don't. FFP has noticed my depressive tone in the Christmas Eve entry and tried to cheer me up in an e-mail. It sort of works.

I have a lot of things I should be doing. I can't seem to get into any of them, however.

Forrest suggests getting some heat and eat chicken Wellington from a little shop that's opened near the bank. I arrange the new Calphalon pans in the cabinet and on the pot rack...whilst we heat this in an aluminum container that came from the shop. FFP makes some corn and spinach, goat cheese and beet salad to go with it. And opens a 1994 Hogue Red Blend that tastes nice.

SuRu calls and eventually walks over with Zoey. We sit in my office, looking at books and web sites and New York maps. For some reason, we end up looking up six or seven words on the online dictionary.

I have lots of things I should be doing. But I pour another glass of wine and sit down with the newspapers, happy that I don't feel any pain and that Im' still reasonably young and healthy but sort of troubled over those that aren't so lucky.

JUST TYPING
What to do. When nothing's to be done?
Look busy.
Perhaps motion is a cure.