I should write much more. That’s how I see it. Not necessarily to share more of what occupies my body and mind, but to keep a record of what’s going on. I’m very good at forgetting things. The more happens, the more I forget. Over the last year, a lot has happened, most of it so out of the ordinary that I never dreamed it up even in my wildest nightmares. Everything was new. The one hundred posts I’ve published on this blog are essentially the only record, unless you made a note of something I told you on the phone.
More words than I could ever hope to use.
How can this be anything close to complete? How could a diary ever hope to be complete? Even if I spent every waking hour writing about everything that occurs, I could never cover it all. Days are full of things that happen. These things are interesting in themselves, and I realize I’ve lost a lot of the details already when I go back to what I wrote in the past. But they’re only a small portion of what would need to be preserved for a complete record.
There’s also the interpretation of things. What the things that happened mean to me forms my perception of reality. My fears and hopes derive from this. They are not based in anything rational. Everyone constructs their own reality, based on biases and preferences. It ignores unwelcome facts and gives undue prominence to others. Then there’s the question of what one does with one’s reality. Some people get cancer and despair. Others get up and fight. Some get lethargic. Others continue living peacefully, secure in the knowledge that their god will save them.
On Friday, I went to bed at nine and slept without interruption until we all got up for breakfast in the morning. On Saturday, I did one worse and lay down to sleep at eight. I had already dozed off a bit earlier while listening to a podcast. Both nights, I was dead tired. I wouldn’t have survived the two hours of Netflix that usually entertain us on weekends.
Does this have to do with the chemo? If I was similarly tired after previous sessions, I don’t remember it clearly. I can recall occasional tired days but didn’t write down details. If I wasn’t, why does my reaction to the same therapy change so much? At the hospital this week, I was more alert than in a long time, as far as I can remember. I managed to do a few hours of productive work before the drugs knocked me out. Back home, I felt reasonably fit. Two days later, tiredness struck.
Today, I let the family go on a playdate in Zurich without me. I could do with more rest. My head hurt as if my brain were shriveling behind my forehead, and I was still exhausted, despite sleeping for more than 20 hours over the past two nights. Is this normal? Does this mean anything? Am I getting weaker? Or is the therapy finally taking a bite?
While the children were playing at Josefwiese, I went to my favorite coffee shop in town, a tiny affair in a old house adjacent to where the city wall used to stand. They tend to have great cake, but today must be weight watchers’ day. Instead of a huge explosion of calories, all I can get is a slim chocolate tarte, rich and juicy, but not exactly filling. I sit on the balcony where the city wall used to be. If it weren’t for my cap, the sun would hit my face. It’s pleasantly warm, far from the furnace of previous days. The sun attempts to burn my forearms, but only half-heartedly. From the playground further out, where the protective moat used to be, I hear children wailing in despair. They dropped their favorite toy or fell off the slide. Screams of “Daddy!” pierce the air. I’m glad I don’t have to react. I take a bite of my tarte and start writing down my impressions of the last few days, a doomed undertaking as always.
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