Birthdays

Today is my oldest sister's birthday. She's the one in our family, I think, who got the lion's share of creative talent. Not only can she paint very well (watercolors, primarily), but now she's learning to play the piano as well.

I got to play the clarinet when I was young. Until it was given to me, I don't think I knew what a clarinet was. I'm thinking, now, that my dad was a great fan of Benny Goodman, and that may explain things.

I was ill with something earlier this week and made an unwise comparison. Lance Armstrong, I was thinking, when he got sick, refused to go down and battled his infirmiries. I knew one woman, suffering from breast cancer, who pictured all the medicines and procedures she was undergoing like little knights, battling valiantly against the evil, invading cells.

When I get ill I want to die.

It's not the symptoms, no matter how painful, that bother me so much as the change it makes in my attitude. When ill, I just lose all interest, just want to roll over and have it stop.

Of course, I get better, and then pick up right where I left off. Today, however, screwed me up again. Yesterday I was good, but this morning I woke at four and fumbled around until ten or so. Then, I laid down and slept until after three in the afternoon.

I have to admit, when I re-awoke, I had the distinct feeling that the day was already mostly over.

But, I did manage to write my sister an e-mail, so it wasn't a total loss.