It is very hard not to look on the internet. Generally I shouldn't, because of the scary pictures of swollen limbs, urgent recommendations for cold hats, and strident imprecations against Locks of Love. But it's also hard to do anything else, except maybe sweep the floor.
Before I had children I had an infinite ability to lose myself in projects and work. My husband, then my boyfriend, had to wait months before I was ready to take time out even to watch a movie together with him. Now I hesitate, endlessly prevaricate, thinking I don't have time...
Something is out of balance when I feel selfish for writing or drawing or painting instead of watching a TV show. It isn't just the selfishness that holds me back, though. It's also the work. I have become not exactly lazy, but without hope. It does not matter if I make this painting or that, because I will not do anything with it. The time and materials will only add up to one object that must be well treated, but never sees light or love.
Must go. Children crying downstairs, Laurent overwhelmed.
Now it is night, and I am the one putting Emile to sleep, which consists of trying not to engage in his conversation until he eventually drops off, usually with his book open and gently glued to his face. He isn't reading, because he is only not quite three, but he loves to look at the pictures. Even this little act makes me proud of him, makes me feel that he is somehow of a literary mind.
Emile does not stop talking, unless it is to make some sound effect. He has questions about everything he sees.
I am not ready for tomorrow. I don't think I could be ready for tomorrow anyway. If I could, it would only make me anxious.
Chemo. It can't be real. I don't have breast cancer. You must be talking to someone else.
This weekend I will go to a hair salon with Lucy, to get a really short haircut.
This will, I hope, soften the shock of losing it all in the shower, bald as a cue.