Entry 237 [Surwich]
Dearest Diary,
What an unpleasant feeling to be stopped immediately because you are too weak to breathe. I couldn't pinpoint the source of the discomfort (one finds it difficult to concentrate when one cannot draw breath) and I appear to be fine now. Tea helped, sleeping helped. Perhaps I have simply overloaded myself with caring for the church, my flock, and my children.
Regardless, I am well now. I will try to seek out a doctor of Gilnean descent who will not sneer at me for being unwell. (Perhaps it is the baby? Perhaps not.) Sandor frets as he does, which is to say not expressly defined as his panic. I speak candidly of death, though I imagine that is a healer's right. It is nothing to be afraid of. When I go, I pray I go with nary a shriek or a cry of terror. That is the best one may hope of death.
He gets so cross when I remind him I must update our wills for Jerald and the coming lad/lass-to-be. But he practices within Death as well, as a soldier, so I do not understand why he gets so touchy. Pregnancy is dangerous; you needn't be a woman to realize that. The time spent giving flesh and blood and bone to the unborn, the toll it takes from one's body.
Labor.
Though I do not expect to die, I mustn't simply discount it, either. So, a doctor must be obtained. I'm afraid my Doctor in the City closed his practice shortly after Daniel's birth, citing a certain wear on the soul. He was very good, and I shall miss him dearly.
The Horde of the Tome have been mostly well-behaved. I do not write much lately. Perhaps I grow irritated because of the humidity here, or short-tempered because they chase their tails in circles like dogs. (But me and mine are the ones to be made into rugs? Hah!) I cannot fathom what causes this, so I say nothing.
Mr. D came to visit me in disguise recently. We had tea, chatted a bit about nothing. He is sweet, and doesn't seem to mind the children who give him wide-eyed looks. I will miss him most, if I die, I think. After Da and Sandor, of course.
Yours,
S.
What an unpleasant feeling to be stopped immediately because you are too weak to breathe. I couldn't pinpoint the source of the discomfort (one finds it difficult to concentrate when one cannot draw breath) and I appear to be fine now. Tea helped, sleeping helped. Perhaps I have simply overloaded myself with caring for the church, my flock, and my children.
Regardless, I am well now. I will try to seek out a doctor of Gilnean descent who will not sneer at me for being unwell. (Perhaps it is the baby? Perhaps not.) Sandor frets as he does, which is to say not expressly defined as his panic. I speak candidly of death, though I imagine that is a healer's right. It is nothing to be afraid of. When I go, I pray I go with nary a shriek or a cry of terror. That is the best one may hope of death.
He gets so cross when I remind him I must update our wills for Jerald and the coming lad/lass-to-be. But he practices within Death as well, as a soldier, so I do not understand why he gets so touchy. Pregnancy is dangerous; you needn't be a woman to realize that. The time spent giving flesh and blood and bone to the unborn, the toll it takes from one's body.
Labor.
Though I do not expect to die, I mustn't simply discount it, either. So, a doctor must be obtained. I'm afraid my Doctor in the City closed his practice shortly after Daniel's birth, citing a certain wear on the soul. He was very good, and I shall miss him dearly.
The Horde of the Tome have been mostly well-behaved. I do not write much lately. Perhaps I grow irritated because of the humidity here, or short-tempered because they chase their tails in circles like dogs. (But me and mine are the ones to be made into rugs? Hah!) I cannot fathom what causes this, so I say nothing.
Mr. D came to visit me in disguise recently. We had tea, chatted a bit about nothing. He is sweet, and doesn't seem to mind the children who give him wide-eyed looks. I will miss him most, if I die, I think. After Da and Sandor, of course.
Yours,
S.