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 A hot day here, and I am staying close to home.  I cannot tolerate heat any more, not since chemo 11 years ago.  It’s called dysautonomia, a side effect of the neurotoxicity of the chemo which left me with autonomic dysfunction (meaning I can’t control my temperature well any longer) and numb feet and minor loss of feeling my fingers.  It was a small price to pay for removing the cancer.  However, it has left me with a disability that people cannot see and therefore are a bit cruel in their comments.  Today I passed on a walk through our museum gardens due to the fact that the temperature was to climb into the 90s - around 32-33 Celsius.  The last time I thought the early morning would be fine I damn near passed out.  The comment I got was “well, you really didn’t want to go anyway”. Um… Invisible disability - why is it so hard to understand?  These are the same people I went with the last time and they saw how I didn’t do well.  So yes...

 Well, every night I do the same thing at least on my work days.  I’m still working full-time. And I’m pushing 70. So I come home every night with the same plan. Tidy up the house a bit, play with the animals, eat dinner Work about an hour and go to bed early. I’m tired when I come home. I always think I’m going to go to bed early so here it is almost 11, which is not early and I’m only now climbing into bed. Which means that 5 AM comes too quickly. And as I fall asleep, I wonder why I am still doing this. It’s a fleeting thought, Regretting that I did not retire. And then I stop and think about my day. my job is a lot more involved than just simple primary care. The majority of my patients are broken, some physically almost all emotionally. How much of my day is just allowing them to vent and talk cry laugh what they need. Maybe that’s why I’m slow to sleep because I’m reconciling their stories in my head. I am beyond grateful for my life and my family. We went through those ...

 Yesterday was D Day.  One of my patients, who has since passed away, was on Omaha Beach that day. He recounted to me when I met him that he remembered being on the transport heading to the beach.  The soldiers said a prayer as they beached, all believing that they probably would not survive the day. He told me, he woke up the next morning, surprised.  Every day after that if someone asked him how he was - he would say “Every morning, I wake up surprised”.  He survived to come home, marry, have children, grandchildren and great grandchildren…he was eternally grateful.   He was part of the group of veterans invited to the D Day ceremony in 2019.  He brought me the permission slip, medically clearing him to go. He was 95 - his health was fair.  My initial thought was, should I clear someone this elderly to go across the world for several celebrations.  However instead I asked him 2 questions. 1. Did he want to go?  (yes he did). And 2. If ...

 Thinking of updating the old Sonny and Cher song to “the bots go on”.  read about the shutdown of the netherlands bot farm.  Kill one, five more show up. 

 your soul

 it was a great day. That’s what my daughter-in-law told me to say in my journal today. And it was a great day. It’s the first time I’ve had one of my kids home for Mother’s Day in years.  The world‘s going to hell in a handbasket, but at least I managed to have one great day.