But the Flesh is Weak.
Due caveats: written in a few sittings on various doses of painkiller. What follows may be total Lovecraftian gibbrish. Had told my bosses that I'd be okay for work on Monday. It quickly became clear that I had been deceiving myself about my recovery time. Side-note: it seems like the secret to Hemingway-esque prose is just typing with one hand. Anyhow, I was able to get off the couch-- I spend my days & nights anchored there-- on Monday but to do so for hours or to ride a train or to not zonk out asleep with no notice? That's beyond my skill. Doctor's check-up today will be my test case: will I be up for the subway? How ruined will I be after? All I did yesterday all day is sleep. Otherwise I've watched a ton of QI, Burning Love-- which ruins it with shitty trans "jokes" in the eleventh hour-- & all of Kill Bill. Oh & the Game of Thrones & another truly exceptional episode of Orphan Black. Jenny has been super great, down to basically giving me sponge baths. I was asleep when she got home last afternoon & stayed down all night; clearly my body is engaged in heavy duty repair projects. I am improving; I can stand up, I can sit up, I even just managed to clip my nails. Still, it all takes a lot out of me; for every "ah-ha, I managed to do it on my own!" there is a recovery period of hibernation, it seems. Similarly, there are sweet spots in the pain med cycle; pain, a brief sargasso of lucidity, goofballs, nap, pain. I've been stretching the cycles longer & longer between doses. So oh, the picture: one of three holes. Mostly the jammed a camera & remote controlled robot tools inside of my arm, so the real cutting was inside. Possibly getting the stitches out today. Considering finding out if I can take a shower on my own, or more likely a bath; Jennifer had to be on call all last night & is sleeping on my spot on the couch as we speak.