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Aug. 24th, 2008 10:51 amAvoid this update if you are a sensitive soul.
This morning I rediscovered my ankles. They're not yet visible: they're a distant land and capable of being sought, however (previously there was an amorphous lump on each leg and each lump looked very like a 15th century rendition of Terra Australis Incognita - what's more each lump felt big enough to take the full Batavia wreck). An hour ago I wanted to send out a clarion call to the world announcing the presence of unchartered lands, but I was too tired and knowing I actually I did have ankles, once upon a time before now turned out to be sufficient.
I'm with Mum for Betty's memorial service. That's a few hours away, so I'll have time for a nap. I need one: this ankle-discovering business sends seas of water from my body (as the inflammation goes down a bit) and is an exhausting business. I know you didn't want that bit of detail. Count it as your token grossness of the day and know that from here on in your Sunday will be charming.
Mum and I were thinking of the ineffable poetry of days like this. You know, where you turn up to see crowds of people you haven't seen in 30 years and never quite got beyond the cake and coffee stage with and they don't know who you are because of time passing and because of the cake and coffee thing and you wonder where on earth you met them? My brain is fog, so about the only name I shall deal with is M's, but, oddly, everyone has a fair chance of recognising me. My Canberra friends, on the other hand, would have to look twice.
I'm one of M's oldest friends, you see, and there is no family. No-one has to remember a thing about me. All they need to do is recognise my vague shape. And, overnight, I had the last of my cortisone and it had its final effect. My moonface and slim hips and bowed over body are all returned to me, as a gift, unchanged from my teen years. I intend to trade them in on my real self as soon as possible, but it's the shape and figure that Betty's friends know best, so I'll bear it gracefully for just one day. If any of my family talk about how fat I've got (tonight, at dinner) then they shall be strangled forthwith. Even if they are 6 foot and many inches and wield a crossbow.
This is really a health update for Llyn and other friends who particularly wanted to be kept in the loop. I'll be back online properly in a couple of days. Mum thinks it's turning-point-day, which means I feel totally dreadful but things are getting better. She says the proof of it is in how much I talk.
I'll report back in a couple of days. This afternoon and tomorrow are M's time. The big thing from the report-back is that I an breathe normally and that the inflammation really is diminishing.
This morning I rediscovered my ankles. They're not yet visible: they're a distant land and capable of being sought, however (previously there was an amorphous lump on each leg and each lump looked very like a 15th century rendition of Terra Australis Incognita - what's more each lump felt big enough to take the full Batavia wreck). An hour ago I wanted to send out a clarion call to the world announcing the presence of unchartered lands, but I was too tired and knowing I actually I did have ankles, once upon a time before now turned out to be sufficient.
I'm with Mum for Betty's memorial service. That's a few hours away, so I'll have time for a nap. I need one: this ankle-discovering business sends seas of water from my body (as the inflammation goes down a bit) and is an exhausting business. I know you didn't want that bit of detail. Count it as your token grossness of the day and know that from here on in your Sunday will be charming.
Mum and I were thinking of the ineffable poetry of days like this. You know, where you turn up to see crowds of people you haven't seen in 30 years and never quite got beyond the cake and coffee stage with and they don't know who you are because of time passing and because of the cake and coffee thing and you wonder where on earth you met them? My brain is fog, so about the only name I shall deal with is M's, but, oddly, everyone has a fair chance of recognising me. My Canberra friends, on the other hand, would have to look twice.
I'm one of M's oldest friends, you see, and there is no family. No-one has to remember a thing about me. All they need to do is recognise my vague shape. And, overnight, I had the last of my cortisone and it had its final effect. My moonface and slim hips and bowed over body are all returned to me, as a gift, unchanged from my teen years. I intend to trade them in on my real self as soon as possible, but it's the shape and figure that Betty's friends know best, so I'll bear it gracefully for just one day. If any of my family talk about how fat I've got (tonight, at dinner) then they shall be strangled forthwith. Even if they are 6 foot and many inches and wield a crossbow.
This is really a health update for Llyn and other friends who particularly wanted to be kept in the loop. I'll be back online properly in a couple of days. Mum thinks it's turning-point-day, which means I feel totally dreadful but things are getting better. She says the proof of it is in how much I talk.
I'll report back in a couple of days. This afternoon and tomorrow are M's time. The big thing from the report-back is that I an breathe normally and that the inflammation really is diminishing.