More or less. About 30 pounds less, although I can’t bring myself to look at a weight scale. I caught a view of myself in the mirror the other day and was shocked. I have the same chest as Audrey Hepburn.
I figured out why super-models look so unhappy all the time. I assumed they were hungry, but it turns out their butts hurt. When your ass is this skinny, it’s good for about five minutes in any position before the chair surface starts reshaping the bone.
I could not have imagined how much the terminal-palliative diagnosis would alter my thinking. Four days after learning I was palliative, I qualified for the home oxygen program. I walk around with two small tubes up my nose followed by 50 feet of plastic tubing following me. This may be normal in Marin County but not on Hill Street, Winnipeg.
My self-image has turned quite odd. I imagine myself connected by tubing to everyone who enters the house. I almost see the tubes that connect us, one to another. Sometimes, the tubing is knit yarn. I imagine it covers each person, head to toe. I am not making this up. These feelings have faded a bit the past week, which is probably good.
After being physically, mentally and emotionally pushed around, I’m amazed at how all this strangeness settles into the new normalcy.I have become used to tubing, resting, and napping. I feel bad about how much Robin is doing around the house. I’m reading, writing, wrapping up legal stuff and watching Survivor. (To find out who survives the 40 days, I’ll have to too.)
I’m trying to live everyday, instead of just waiting, waiting…