|Julie Chartier and me|
The money was actually a well-spent donation to the Holyoke YMCA though its second annual Cycle-a-Thon. It lasted from 9 to 12:30 and I don't know if anyone rode all that time, but an hour was plenty for me. I had no idea there would be a DJ, a beautiful spread of food and even a T-shirt. I'm glad to support it because the Y has so many good programs and has been a big factor in my regaining my strength.
I felt pokey this week and exchanged emails about it with Melissa, who reassured me that it was normal after two consecutive days of getting your blood sucked out. I rested when I got home Tuesday and then gradually got back into activities, first with yoga, then tennis and after that swimming, which is not as much but feels good when you stop. Activity breeds energy, like a windmill creating electricity. I have gotten better at knowing when to stop and when to push.
It was strange to go from the blasting music at the Y this morning to the gentle music of yoga afterwards. But I don't like to miss Justine's Saturday morning class at Serenity Yoga. I didn't have much left for Maddie's walk, but we went for a spin, so to speak.
I'm happy to be working with my editor Mimi Rigali again, contributing stories to the Republican's upcoming book on Italian Americans in Western Massachusetts, part of the paper's Our Stories series.
|I still have my Mass Confusion tennis towel!|
The nurse told me that sometimes people work during extracorporeal photopheresis. I don't know how they do it with only one hand available.
When exchanging emails with Mimi, I typed without capital letters due to being unable to hit the shift and a character key simultaneously. I wouldn't want to write a whole story like that, but I guess if I was inspired I could do it and tidy up later.
I basically have a three-day week, which is fine because the deadline is a ways away.
After all these years of being away from the newspaper, I still have nightmares about work: no chair, no computer, bad lighting, impossible deadlines, being told I'm not producing enough, all the reporters' desks lined up in a row at the front of the office (with no place to put your stuff) so that the editors could keep an eye on us and we wouldn't goof off.
But last night I had a better dream. I stood outside the paper looking into a room where a small group of employees was singing at a goodbye party for someone who was leaving. I walked in and told (executive editor) Wayne Phaneuf that I missed the camaraderie, which is true. Now in a way I'm working for the paper but without the pressure, sitting at my own table with a chair that is not broken and nobody waiting for me to go to the bathroom so they can steal it away.