|Almost birthday party time|
In any case, while sometimes we use up three courts and don't all get a good amount of time with George, today when I got there, just one other person was hitting with George. And he strained his arm, so it ended up being only me.
Because George does repetitions of drills based on date of the month, I had to do everything 23 times.
Getting a little tired after hitting 21 in a row and hitting the 22nd into the net, I said I thought I had hit enough. He re-started at one anyway. "But it's my birthday," I fake-whined. "No it isn't," the drill sergeant said. "It's tomorrow."
We went back to one.
I was doing one-bounce slices at the net, forehand and backhand, and then ground strokes from each side, aiming at cones.
I knocked the ball off the cone on the first forehand and backhand. He said I should play the lottery. I just remembered that I forgot to do it.
Afterwards he said I did a good job and showed a lot of stamina.
I don't have any medical appointments this week, but I'll make up for it next week by probably having three: a neurologist for the first time, ECP (the blood treatment for my graft vs. host disease of the skin) and, possibly Melissa, my nurse practitioner. Without all of that and without my donor, Denise, I wouldn't be having a birthday tomorrow.
Some stem cell transplant recipients call your original birthday your belly button birthday. That sounds silly. I call the extra four my "re-birthdays" and the one on Aug. 24 just my plain old birthday. Old could be the given word here.
After I wrote my Huffington Post piece about my father's death from a brain tumor, I connected with some people who had lost friends and family to a brain tumor or who had one themselves.
One had tweeted to stop complaining about getting old because you're lucky you get to be old.
Gotta keep that in mind.