I am loathe to admit that, after a month in the hospital, I am cranky. Worse yet, my gratitude is shaky.
Cabin fever? I should only have that much room.
I am dizzied and speechless that I face another six weeks on IV antibiotics, backless hospital gowns, lack of privacy, and using a portable urinal.
My beloved and Henry are home refeathering the nest without me. Now that each hour has become so precious, I’d rather spend them in “my” world, “his” world, our humble Marklewood.
Please, don’t misjudge my tone to be depressed, desperate, or, at the very least, a bad sign of something a-brewing.
At 1:00am in 3702, my rant is now passing, at least for a few more weeks.
If you stop by, please try the Black Bean Soup, London Broil, or the Shrimp/Grits.
Raleighwood’s Reverse Prodigal Son