He beat her senseless

My apologies for not making mention before now -- but La Belle Bianca Castafiore will be de retours from a luxurious vacation early next week. We have missed her around the homestead -- her dulcet tones, her low key and comforting presence.

Yesterday and today have been marked mostly by pain and depression. I am doing the best I can to address each but these bastard symptoms are adroit at feeding off of each other.

Fred ferried me to the Infectious Disease doctor and Infusion Center, then off to see my VIPMD. I have not been keeping track -- but it hit me yesterday how much we are paying for the privilege of parking. It's outrageous.

Riding in the car brings me to tears, and that stresses the Fredster out, particularly as he is doing his best to avoid potholes, uneven streets, and rabid commuters. Having me sob doesn't do much to keep him calm -- and he is the one having to face some of the worst traffic known to motoring-kind.

I abhor others' logic in response to my illogical emotional outbursts. My MDVIP, for example, felt it necessary to point out that I am in much better overall health now that the infection has been "removed." Never mind that I am left with only one useful limb -- in his shortsighted view, I should be happy to be alive.

Harrumph. What a PollyAnna-Man. I might as well be gorked out, put in diapers, and parked in a corner somewhere. It took me five hours of hard work to accomplish the very basic of tasks this morning -- all before the gentry of the manor rose from their slumber, as I don't wish to be pitied, or aided. Just as Fred got up for the day, I was ready to take my first nap, and was, of course, in tears. He must think I do nothing other than weep.

I cannot make you understand.

There was a sweet elderly couple in the waiting room at the doctor's office yesterday. They carried a folded walker, so I am not sure who actually needed it. It seemed to function like a sleek fashion accessory -- the shades pushed up into the hairline, the pink crocodile cowboy boots.

She said, in that quiet, sweet voice that some confused -- but secure -- people adopt: "This is a nice room. I wonder what they use it for." Her husband told her that it was a waiting room and that patients sat there until seeing the doctor. She was clueless about being at the doctor's office but covered well -- laughing, tossing out "of course" after "of course."

A few minutes later, she wondered why she was there, and he told her that she had some sores on her arm that would not heal, and together they looked at those reddened spots of skin. She managed more laughter and the obligatory "of course."

She had beautiful poofy white-white hair, no grey, and swimming blue eyes.

I dreamt that he beat her senseless in the elevator on the way down to the very expensive parking garage.