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.
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