Ok yes so I lost this blog for a year, which just goes to show a) the silly busy-ness of it all; b) how hard it is to remember Google usernames and passwords; c) how sensitive I am to friends' comments ("You? A blog? I hate it!"); and d) how little I have to say that is say-able to the public, albeit one that is extremely small. What bounced me back into this was Aunt Snow's hospital post in her Doves Today blog about what it's like to have diverticulitis. Hoses and knotted skeins formed into the shape of a large intestine. Reminded me a bit of my own guts, although they haven't flared up like that and the issues are elsewhere. My innard problems aren't columnar, either, but the idea that something other is going on inside than appears on the outside is a powerful one that is a physical version of Dorian Gray's psycho-moral reversion. Lots of people are hurting worse than I am (in fact, I have no big complaints at all, I'm just thinking). Like BI who told me yesterday that the plate in her neck has come apart and that she will have to have her neck re-fused so that metal doesn't hit the spinal cord. Her pain won't be reduced, but she'll have less of a chance of being injured or paralyzed. Or Ladykate, who writes to say there are lumps on her thyroid that have to be checked out. Maybe they'll have to take the whole thing. This while in the midst of teaching and helping people in bad shape who have been treated like animals while trying to cross the Arizona border.
She probably feels like her insides look like a map of that lovely border area, where all kinds of biopsies ought to be taken and aggressive cancers removed. I suppose then, thinking about it, that I didn't write for a year in this blog because I couldn't how to incorporate Red's loss into it. He would have enjoyed helping me find my voice and vision in this thing, but instead he only had time in July to take me to his closet so that I might pick out any books I wanted to take home. I couldn't bring myself to do it, as if taking a book would rob him of a few extra pages of his own life, which would come to an end in October.
Red Bird's Blog
She probably feels like her insides look like a map of that lovely border area, where all kinds of biopsies ought to be taken and aggressive cancers removed. I suppose then, thinking about it, that I didn't write for a year in this blog because I couldn't how to incorporate Red's loss into it. He would have enjoyed helping me find my voice and vision in this thing, but instead he only had time in July to take me to his closet so that I might pick out any books I wanted to take home. I couldn't bring myself to do it, as if taking a book would rob him of a few extra pages of his own life, which would come to an end in October. Red Bird's Blog
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