Crepes, Diuretics and Starlings

Another sleepless night. I don’t believe that I’m fated to have two good nights in a row for a long while, more’s the pity.

I tried to make crepes last night. The recipe seemed simple enough, and they hardly had any salt at all in them. To call the experiment “a disaster” would be a kindness. The Socialist went out and got an Arby’s roast beef sandwich and curly fries afterwards. He let me smell the fries. It didn’t help.

I was tired last night. And anymore, that seems to go hand-in-hand being irritable and impatient as well. I can’t even say what precipitated it, but The Socialist and I started bickering as soon as we went to bed. It doesn’t matter what started it, or what was said though. We ended up crying in each other’s arms. We’re both scared. And I have no idea how to help him through this, when I’m barely helping myself at the moment.

I have to weigh myself every morning now, and chart it. That way we can keep track of whether or not the diuretics are working. My weight fluctuates up to several pounds from day to day. This morning I weighed 22 pounds less than when I was admitted to the hospital though, so I guess the Lassix and Ameloride are working. They just aren’t working quickly enough to suit me. I still look and feel deformed – like one of those starving children in the Save the Children commercials on television. I find myself avoiding mirrors, and getting clothes on and off in record time. There is a large mirror on my dresser, next to the bed, and I’m the first thing I see when I rise in the morning. Every day it still takes me aback. That swollen carcass can’t be me.

Ameloride is nasty stuff. It’s bitter and dissolves about .2 seconds before it hits your tongue. I have yet to discover a way to swallow it fast enough to keep from getting that metallic chemical test from hitting the back of my throat. This aperitif would not be my choice of the best way to start and end a day, but for the time being they remain both my wake-up nosh and my night-cap.

A constant in my life – the O’beast and Kitten are squabbling on the new hammock at my shoulder. The O’beast has tried to back off, but Kitten is gnawing at his front leg at the moment. I’ll be curious to see if he runs or simply sits on her.

Outside my window, in the early morning light, I watch the starlings beginning to mass for their autumn migration. They’ve recently gone through a molt, and the stars on their feathers are white and loud. They gather in a group, take off for a spin or two around the complex, and then return to the lawn quibbling with each other, as if they aren’t yet satisfied with their upcoming travel arrangements. Kitten watches, impressed by the show. O’beast simply tries to extract his leg from her mouth. He’s seen it all before.