There’s something about trying to check out a book on dealing with impending death and being told there’s an 11-week wait. Which means I’m assured of at least 12 more weeks of hanging around, since I’ll need a week or so to read it, stalling as much as I can.
I don’t really expect to be heading off any time soon, although I suppose one never knows. The important thing is I beat Eddie Van Halen. But I’m fascinated as I deal with doctors about how we work so hard to stay alive, when maybe sometimes letting go is the better path.
More tests, more hypotheses, more popsicles. Mostly, I still can’t run. And I’m not sure why one should live if one can’t run. My Garmin is too expensive to justify strolling with it. I’m feeling a lot of pressure.
On the other hand, today is exactly 22 years since Mo and I went to an Ani concert and decided we would live happily ever after. And I don’t think it’s quite ever after yet, although she makes me quite happy.
Oh, well, 11 weeks it is. I should look up an 11-week marathon training plan …