[Private] One Month More.
I am starting chemotherapy next month, and as I have planned, I will be shaving my head this month in order to avoid concerns or suspicions about the whole thing. I don't look forward to it, and I know Mary doesn't either. I enjoyed how energetic I felt during the week away, without radiotherapy, and now that it has resumed, I feel so ... heavy and dull, like an old gray stone. I hate the impending sense of doom that seems to permeate everything, like life may end at the start of May. Who was it that wrote, "April is the cruellest month"?
Ah, that would be Tom. The peculiar fellow who has been strangely different in his coming to visit his kitten this past while. His spring break must have been exceptionally good. Either he has found happiness similar to my own or someone is slipping catnip into his coffee in the morning.
End tangent.
It has been a cruel month, and it has only just begun. I'm worried about Will. I'm also worried that people seem to be losing their heads and leaping to supernatural conclusions about the spate of disappearances lately when the threat is most likely dangerously more real. Mostly, I am worried about Will. Ari has already spoken to the police, however, so there is little more to be done except wait and hope.
On top of that, Mary had some sort of traumatic nightmare in Quèbec that had her shrieking in terror. I've never, ever heard such a sound before in my life, and I really would rather not hear it again if I can help it. She was very shaken when I finally managed to wake her up, and she wouldn't go into specifics, but it had to do with her mother. The death of her mother, I suppose. Some sort of relived memory.
Regardless, she was under the impression that it should not have happened and that she might need to try therapy again. I'm worried that it might have had something to do with pent-up stress, little of which having to do with that ... fiasco and much of which to do with the impending summer regimen. Sometimes I think it might be better if I separated myself from her so she wouldn't have to deal with this ridiculous cancer drama. Would that be better or worse in the long run? Things are not going to get easier for either of us. I don't know if I want her to see me deteriorate -- but the selfish part of me doesn't want to let go of this source of happiness, either. And she is a great deal of happiness in my life. I suppose it is a matter of whether or not the happiness I bring her outweighs the burden I impose.
My writing has taken an exceptionally dark turn lately. Black comedy. In all this, it seems to be the only constant (outside of the obvious female company), even improving in spite of its bleaker content. It isn't easy to concentrate on much else these days -- or perhaps I just don't want to concentrate on anything else too much.
Ah, that would be Tom. The peculiar fellow who has been strangely different in his coming to visit his kitten this past while. His spring break must have been exceptionally good. Either he has found happiness similar to my own or someone is slipping catnip into his coffee in the morning.
End tangent.
It has been a cruel month, and it has only just begun. I'm worried about Will. I'm also worried that people seem to be losing their heads and leaping to supernatural conclusions about the spate of disappearances lately when the threat is most likely dangerously more real. Mostly, I am worried about Will. Ari has already spoken to the police, however, so there is little more to be done except wait and hope.
On top of that, Mary had some sort of traumatic nightmare in Quèbec that had her shrieking in terror. I've never, ever heard such a sound before in my life, and I really would rather not hear it again if I can help it. She was very shaken when I finally managed to wake her up, and she wouldn't go into specifics, but it had to do with her mother. The death of her mother, I suppose. Some sort of relived memory.
Regardless, she was under the impression that it should not have happened and that she might need to try therapy again. I'm worried that it might have had something to do with pent-up stress, little of which having to do with that ... fiasco and much of which to do with the impending summer regimen. Sometimes I think it might be better if I separated myself from her so she wouldn't have to deal with this ridiculous cancer drama. Would that be better or worse in the long run? Things are not going to get easier for either of us. I don't know if I want her to see me deteriorate -- but the selfish part of me doesn't want to let go of this source of happiness, either. And she is a great deal of happiness in my life. I suppose it is a matter of whether or not the happiness I bring her outweighs the burden I impose.
My writing has taken an exceptionally dark turn lately. Black comedy. In all this, it seems to be the only constant (outside of the obvious female company), even improving in spite of its bleaker content. It isn't easy to concentrate on much else these days -- or perhaps I just don't want to concentrate on anything else too much.