Ballad of a cold lost marble

After a week or so of lethargy I've got enough energy for at least a short entry. After I wrote my last post my energy level nosedived and I spent two weeks dragging myself around like Quasimodo, just trying to make it through each day. It didn't help that Mark Linkous killed himself a little over a week ago, causing me to walk around under a cloud of gloom which hasn't really dissipated even now. His music has sustained me and fed my spirit for so long that I can't really take it in that there won't be any more. So I mourned his loss, tried to breathe and did the next indicated thing. It may not have been my most shining hour, but I got through it. I went to bed at about 8:30 every night for nearly two weeks and still couldn't get up to jump on my trampoline more than four mornings a week. I was in despair, thinking I would have to endure an entire month of that, but it eased up over this last weekend. We've had a lovely, warm and sunny few days, and my breathing is better, which makes all the difference. I didn't realize how bad my lungs were until I missed a Ribavirin dose last week, my first and only missed dose. I arrived at work and discovered that I'd left my meds at home, so I just had to skip that morning's dose, and later in the day I noticed that I could breathe. The difference was amazing, but the next day I went back to breathlessness and wheezing again. It's a bit better now than it was last week, but that's not saying much. I've got seventeen more days.

I've decided that I want to have a party when it's all over. My last day of treatment is April 1st and my birthday is April 13th, and I want to have a party to celebrate both of those events, only I don't want to have to give it myself, so I asked some friends to help me out. We'll have it here, at my house, because I've got a nice big back yard, but most of the work will be done by other people, which sounds really good right now. Probably by the time the day arrives I'll be fine with pitching in to help, but at the moment it makes me tired just thinking about it. So, the party will be April 17th, and I'm inviting a whole slew of guests, about half of whom will make it, probably. I'm also burning hours of music onto CD so that there's good music all day long. I've noticed that at parties I'm generally the only one who listens to the music, so I've decided to please myself this time and play the music I like. Fuck 'em if they don't like it. It's my birthday.

The cuts on my fingers are getting out of hand. I've had a deep cut on the tip of my right thumb for nearly three weeks now. It will start to heal and then reopen itself and gape for a few days, then start to heal again. It doesn't help that I'm clumsy and keep bashing it on things. I now know the truth of the cliché "sticks out like a sore thumb." And that's just one, of many. Every time I touch anything even remotely sharp I come away with a cut, which then takes ages to heal. I've got Band-aids on most of my fingertips every night, as I soak the cuts in Neosporin while I sleep, in a vain effort to get them to heal faster. And now I've got raw patches between my fingers. Not sure what that's all about, but I noticed it this morning. I rubbed Neosporin there, too, but it didn't seem to make much difference. In fact, it made no difference at all, but at least I got to feel like I was taking action to combat the problem. Seventeen more days.

Obviously I'm not feeling terribly inspired tonight. I think I've said everything I needed to say, and then some. I have a vague idea that at one time I was a good writer, but my memory is so shot that I can't say for sure. I hold onto a faint hope that when this is all over and my brain and body start to get over it I will find my lost writing talent, wherever it went to.

Seventeen more days.