Textling #59

Third illness thumped through the door and wedged my lungs with thistledown. This one a thoroughbred of a disease, cultured, in prime conditions curable. A period of quarantine at home, same old. A jamboree of drugs to take at dawn: count out in fur-lined cup with whiskered edges! A dedicated nurse-team gives the word. Each dose is filled with best intent. First though, a ferry in a storm. Occasionally a day’s relief, a breather. Signs saying: that way, please! Strapped in. Pillar to post. One and two look on, astounded.

46 days left. Anguish and hope are falling into step. A better week! Nausea: moderate to good.


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