Friday was the kind of day that would have been good to bottle: blue skies, sun, 70s, and green enough that you could still hold on to summer.
Tennis in the morning with one group, tennis in the late afternoon with another, and writing in between. Probably too much tennis, and it showed, but I want to get in as much outdoor tennis as possible before it gets too cold.
Yesterday, I planned to get up and run, but I fell asleep at the kitchen table and almost fell off my chair. Then I put my head down on my arms and fell asleep again, waking up to pins and needles in my arms. I got to yoga late and could barely do my down dogs. Still, it was good to go, and later there was a dog walk in the rain, dinner with friends and the Art Walk in Easthampton, then ice cream.
Things are good, but still. The other night I dreamt that I relapsed.
I said to my doctor, Dan, "How can this be? I am more than five years out!"
He said it happens, that it could probably be treated. He knew of one person who had made it but also of another who had died.
I needed chemotherapy shots in my arm and hand every half hour. It actually hurt, and I was sick with fear.
Echoes of Patricia's death. One minute we were complaining about Graft vs. Host disease, and the next minute she was gone. We had been on parallel courses, and in the dream it was my turn next.
I woke up with a splitting headache and made the coffee extra strong.