I ripped out the first iteration of the Night Shift shawl and have begun again with a different palette of sock yarn. I don't have a lot, but I do have enough leftovers in purples and burgundies and greys and brights to match a new light purple skein. I’m pleased.
Wordle in three today, after not getting a single letter right in the first word. But that meant I eliminated 5 letters from the running. The second guess left me with 2 green and 1 brown, and the answer was easily discerned after that.
I’ve been having mini panic attacks of the existential sort and I have no one to talk to about it. I don’t want sympathy, but a therapist to listen would be nice. I haven’t told Sweetie everything the oncologist said, because he doesn’t need to know just yet. I’ll let him remain optimistic until after the biopsy when we meet again with the doctor. Maybe my doctor is wrong, but I really don’t think so in my heart of hearts.
I hope to continue writing about this sucky ‘journey’ I’m on. Sweetie and Sister-in-Law don’t read this blog and I don’t know if anyone else does, either, but that’s okay because just writing makes me feel a little better. I’ve never been an avid, or good, journal writer, being embarrassed by the crazy inner monologues that are my thoughts. And I feel that my writing skills, which used to be okay, are now shit.
I’m 65 and the last chemo messed with my cognitive skills and while I’ve gotten most of those skills back, I can’t say that I am just like new. And I also want to say here that I have noticed a few things going on with my body over the last 2 or 3 weeks that have had me a little concerned. Instead of my physical strength increasing, it was slowly decreasing. I had stopped getting better.
