…Isn’t necessarily regret. It’s the stupid antibiotics that I’ve been taking now for almost five weeks straight. No matter what you do, brush your teeth, rise your mouth with wash, gurgle salt water, it still tastes a bitter pill. Funny how life literalizes your metaphors without even asking.
Last night, I went out for dinner with the Rock and Roll in-laws. The boy’s aunt is visiting from New Brunswick and it was a lovely dinner. If you get the chance, have a black bean burrito at Mitzi’s Sister—delicious!
I’m feeling frustrated today because I’ve been taking so much medication for so long and I don’t even know if it’s working. Well, it’s working in the sense that I’m not dying of sickness like I was a few weeks ago but I’m not feeling entirely well either. The disease is funny that way, it sits beneath the surface, sort of floating in the pool of my body waiting patiently to pull me completely down in the undertow.
Needless to say I’m tired of it all, the low white blood cells, the high creatinine, the sickly chest, and the extreme exhaustion. Today, this rainy Sunday in April, where I’m supposed to be making plans for Ireland, curling up in bed reading a book, getting out even though it’s still kind of cold, I’m stuck inside feeling sorry for myself. I’ll change the Boomtown Rats now please—I don’t like Sundays.