When my friend Carol picked me up for breakfast this morning, she sagely announced that when I’m worried about my health, my blog is about me; when I’m feeling confident and good, I branch out. It was her way of complimenting me on recovering rapidly from my recent stint in the hospital. I’ve been blogging about people who annoy me, computer woes, the suspense of waiting for Irma to strike, and so on. I’m about to trash all Carol’s praise. Today was an ill health day.
I enjoyed breakfast with Carol—we went to the Book Ladies, a group of women who have been meeting for breakfast the first Tuesday of the month for at least twenty years and maybe thirty. I was one of the founders of the group, but I can’t tell you for sure when it started, only that it was mostly women from TCU. We decided to welcome anyone who’s life calling focused on books—librarians, teacher, authors, booksellers. It’s a compatible group, all progressives politically. Years ago, we unintentionally ran off the one conservative, a bookseller I really liked. I enjoyed breakfast this morning, even if I did indulge in hash browns with lots of ketchup.
Jean picked me up for lunch on the TCU campus. We had to park a bit away from the entrance, so I had a long (for me) walk, up a medium incline. I had to sit and rest partway there, and again when we reached the room where the retirees luncheon was. Jean had to leave early, and we agreed we’d see who would take me home. But I got so winded, I decided I wanted to leave when Jean did—home was right on her way to her appointment. I missed a speaker I would have enjoyed, someone I know from the Texas literary scene. But I came home and collapsed in a fit of depression and dark thoughts.
Upshot was Jordan took me to our doctor’s office. He was reassuring. Those finger meters don’t work with a fib, so I should stop being worried about my low heart rate. Okay, yes, I was worried. And my body will take a while to adjust to the new normal of a fib, so I will be tired and that’s okay. I of course with my strong Puritan streak thought being tired a week out of the hospital was self-indulgent malingering. He gave me permission to be tired, and I came home and slept the rest of the afternoon.
Long story short, I am much reassured tonight. I think being a novelist has something to do with my anxiety—I give in to my imagination too easily. I used to know a man who said to me, “Go on, bring that bridge right on up here so you can jump it.” He had a point.
I shall now spend my days reading Silver Screen (is it even published today?) and eating bonbons. That used to be our phrase that epitomized the self-indulgent, lazy life.