Dr Cat and Paula have been kind enough to imply that trying to write deathless prose for a book, an essay, and a grant submission on three different topics while at the nadir of radiotherapy treatment and its aftermath might not be the smartest thing I've ever done, in the struggle to find the perfect balance of body and mind. Has this blog taught me nothing?
The trouble for me is that writing, when it's going well — and even when it's more of a struggle — makes me happy and content. But since Paula gave me a firm reality check (and zucchini frittata and blood-plum crumble) on Saturday night, I've done no real work for a couple of days. And here are two photographs to prove it. First, the "before" shot:
And now, the "after":
First person to find the St Louis reference gets a chocolate....
Fortunately my grant collaborators are working at our draft while I recover (though one has a pre-school child and a baby to care for) and the other has a bunch of other applications from his faculty to read and assess.
According to the radiotherapy technicians, the worst of the burning should have emerged by today, so it should start to clear soon. When I was moaning to Paula the other night, I found myself saying I was sick of dragging my body around with me. I shocked myself, as I normally feel rather more integrated and connected than that. No wonder it's hard to work.