Hello, it has been awhile.

But here I am again writing to you, and to me, and to . . . I don’t know. Just writing.

Modest Mouse’s Float On is playing on the speakers. It’s Spotify playing through. I first heard this song in 2005, while staying at a hostel in Marseilles and encountering a group of very rowdy Brits. They kept playing it as we went to the beach, trolled the late night downtown streets and just had a good old time in general. One of them could open a bottle of beer with his teeth. They were all life guards, which was reassuring because we all swam to a cave only accessible by water – and it was a long swim. No one drown, thank goodness. We hitchhiked back from the tiny beach that lead to the cave, but my brother and I were the only ones who could get a car because of my French. Everyone else walked the long, long walk back to the hostel.

The song is long over now. I’m not a fast typer.

This past week has been quite fine. Not bad. Not fireworks. Should every moment be fireworks? That is basically impossible. It would certainly be exhausting. But then, I’m exhausted all the time anyhow. I can’t even bring myself to go out for tea, which is MADNESS.

It’s getting more difficult to ‘be’. My energy is so low that the stairs at home are a challenge and leave me winded (with a splash of low blood pressure dizziness). I suspect I need a blood transfusion. While chemo these days are pills I pop from home, they are nevertheless chemotherapy. It’s fucking exhausting. However, I am hoping a transfusion, if deemed necessary, will pick me up. But then there’s the issue of the bulge. The bulge is in the lower part of my solar plexus and it is hard. It presses into my stomach giving me nausea. Not sure what can be done about it, but I’ll see a doctor next week to discuss.

Now that song about funked up kicks is playing. It’s both very disturbing, and very catchy. Leaves me conflicted.

The other day, the women who cleans my parents home said to me, “I didn’t know you are an artist” and I was like, “whaaa?” because I am no artist. But she enjoyed the tiny series I painted that features my feet, Zsolt’s feet, and our hands. And truth be told, it was really nice to hear her words. But I’m not an artist and have no desire to be. Not officially. If I’m anything, I’m a professional napper. Nap this! Nap that! Nap here! Nap there!

Went to a local spa in the woods the other day with my mother. It’s called the Nordic. Lovely place, a very nice location to relax in Ottawa. But if you have brain fog and are weak as a noodle, and on top of that, scary skinny, it’s not such an easy place to navigate. Their handicapped parking was blocked when I arrived, and all the padded chairs in the cabanas were removed so my bony butt had to rest upon the hard planks of their wooden seats. And then, having trouble focusing as I do, navigating the stone steps in the place was really challenging too. My poor mother had to haul our bags around the resort because I can’t carry heavy things. BUT we had a lovely lunch, and the infinity pool was lovely and, had I been able to handle them, the saunas are always a treat. My inability to navigate their premise is really a reflection on how much I’ve changed rather than any comment on the resort – except for their lack of chairs in the entrance and that parking situation – not cool at all. But I still think it is wonderful there. I just also think I shouldn’t go again without gaining more strength. And bringing a cushion for my skinny butt.

How entitled am I, using a spa to benchmark my state of health?!… Ah well, I’m lucky in that aspect and will accept that luck wherever it comes from.

We finally found a name for the car: Little Zoomer! And guess what the little zoomer did this week, turned on it’s check engine light. Curse words! *&^%$^! We are taking it in on Thursday for an exam. We shall see. I’m also taking myself in this week to get this hard mass looked at by a doctor. We’ll see about that one too.

And now, my water bottle calls.

GOOD NIGHT.

P.S. What a game last night. Go sens GO!