MDS: No Naps in Sight

Five days without a nap. Is that kind of like going five days in the desert without water?

Don't think so.

But, it feels like it.

Not that any serious physical exercise has been included in those days. Just

• 2 days of driving
• 2 days of playing ski journalist in Boston at the Boston Ski Show
• 9 holes of golf
• 1 day of sitting in the semi-cold at Giants Stadium (at least the Giants won)
  

Really. How strenuous should that be?

Well, how it should be and how it is are two different things, and I'm facing this Monday morning with cobwebs in my eyes, between my ears and probably in other places.

And, I can't go back to sleep. Actual deadlines must be met.

Oh well. Dr. O never said I should show up for blood counts this week, so maybe I'll play it irresponsibly and not call to find out if she meant it. That'll buy me an extra 90 minutes to nap today and tomorrow.

After that it'll be Thanksgiving and she won't be there. Ha!

Night, night.

MDS: Jet Lag Sets In

We're back from London. We appear to have survived the return flight—no fellow passengers suffered soughing or sneezing attacks in our general area of the plane. But, now, having risen from a lousy sleep at 4 a.m., I have a new quasi-medical question.

Does MDS effect jet lag?

Because, you see, by the aforementioned 4 a.m., my body was screaming at me that it was way past time to get out of bed. NJ 4 a.m. equals London 8 a.m., and had we slept til 8 in London, we'd've almost missed breakfast.

And now, at 6:30, my stomach is crying to be fed. It clearly feels that it has missed breakfast.

We won't know the longer term jet-lag effect for a few hours, if not a few days, but right now I'm thinking I don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting through this day without multiple naps.

I doubt any of this time displacement is affected by MDS, but constant vigilance is a lifestyle these days. And, really, why not focus on nonsense like this? Otherwise I might have to do something constructive. Or worry about real issues like world peace, or something.

Tomorrow—a flu shot. Can't wait.

MDS: Coughs & Sneezes in Crowded Places

On Sunday, we traveled by train from London to Brighton and back. Few people were on board going to Brighton, but the return trip train was crowded.

A couple who traveled for about a third of the trip sat near us, the male coughing intermittently.

Last night, we went to the theatre. (Saw John Lithgow performing "Stories by Heart", his own one-man show. Excellent.) The young lady sitting next to me was sniffling and coughing. She was obviously nursing a cold.

I sat squirming in these semi-crowd situations. I'm supposed to "avoid sick people," according to the basic recommendations for handling MDS.

How do you do that on a crowded train or in a sold-out theater?

The situations induced slight paranoia. Better not breathe, I told myself. Better not touch anything, like the armrest you share with that young lady. At intermission, I asked Penny to switch seats with me. I doused my hands with Purell. Even considered sticking some up my nose. (Would that disinfect the air I breathed?)

Doesn't this young lady know that this cold she's sharing with us theatre-goers could kill me?

Well, no actually. How could she know that? Bet she hasn't even heard of MDS. Besides, just because she has a cold, doesn't mean she must lock herself away until it goes away.

And, besides that, you (I) can't avoid everyone in the world who has a cold.

And, besides that, could it really kill me? Or would it just be more severe for me than a cold used to be?

Is this nuts? Will I drive myself nuts?

And, now, I'm about to get on a plane for an 8-hour flight. God forbid anyone coughs or sneezes in that environment!

MDS Legs in London

Onward we trudge, traipsing through London as if on the Last March to Victory, testing not only my stamina, but Penny's, as well.

Museums, street markets, shopping, string quartet concerts, walks across the Thames, negotiating five flights of hotel stairs—it was in all in a day's pleasure yesterday.

I looked at my lower legs last night. The right one appears as if it's suffering from a sporadically placed but significant acne. The right one shows some acne-like red bumps, but the shin (where the skin biopsy was done), more than anything, looks like a plum is growing there.

Are there more red blots now? Is that purple blob growing larger? If so, is that all related to walking miles per day?

Probably not. It's more than likely my imagination, combined with a traveler's fatigue.

But, at this rate, I'm never going to win the "most beautiful legs in New Jersey" contest, never mind the "most beautiful New Jersey legs currently visiting London" contest.

What's a poor, middle-aged MDS boy to do?

Keep on truckin'.

This is a great city. So, Vidaza be damned, we'll do just that.

MDS: Stamina Holds Up in London

Well, the stamina question was answered yesterday. You remember the stamina question, yes? How long would it take MDSMitch to reach utter exhaustion after flying all night?

The answer: 2.5 days.

The bottom finally dropped out yesterday (Friday), 2.5 days after landing.

Still, I think that's pretty good. And, even though I didn't even want to get out of bed yesterday, not only did I do that, but managed to stay on my feet through a morning at the Cabinet War Rooms, a stroll in the Westminster Abbey/Houses of Parliament area, and a piano concert at the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

All that after Penny kept me up til all hours at Royal Festival Hall for a London Philharmonic concert the night before.

Then—collapse and fair uselessness until it was time for a classic half-pint-and-meat-pie at the local pub.

Delicious, that was.

So, really, I'm holding my own as we play tourist here in London. it's yet another life victory over the mundane.

Cheerio, old chaps.

MDS Mitch Goes to London

I've survived an overnight flight. My first since MDS arrived. To London.

Chalk it up to another "victory over the mundane," this time to flying all night.

Rational or not, I was concerned. You arrive early in the morning, sleep-deprived, your body pretzeled into a series of aches and cramps, your digestive system totally tossed out of whack.

And, remember—you've been angsting all day about flying. Did you remember:

• passport;
• camera;
• voltage adaptor;
• voltage converter;
• to re-charge the re-chargeable batteries;
• to pack this;
• to unpack that;
• medications;
• especially medications?

Anyway, I can't sleep sitting up. Not even armed with a neck pillow and prescription sleeping pill.

On this trip I even tried my long thought-out pillow experiment: wear the neck pillow backwards to keep my head from lolling forward.

No go.

And, every sneeze of cough on the plane or in-bound subway made me wince. Germs! Beware the germs! They've everywhere!

And, you know, these international germs are particularly virulent. And, I hear, the British germs especially don't like MDS people from New Jersey. After all, Jersey was the cradle of the revolution. I'm sure they still resent us for that.

But, arrive we did, all in one piece. All-in-all it looks like this "chronically ill adult" survived the initial stages of the vacation.

Need, want, demand more? These travels are chronicled at: Penny and Mitch's Travels, and at GraysAtPlay – Traveling Boomers' Adventures.

MDS Mitch Golfs Stowe

I suddenly realized that several days have passed since my last blog entry. No worries—traveled to Stowe, Vermont doing on-site golf research.

Well, someone's gotta do it.

The trip was delightful, although playing Stowe's new golf course, Stowe Mountain Golf Club, was as much like hiking as golfing.

Seems they built the thing directly into the Mount Mansfield and Spruce Peak hillsides. You actually must sign a waiver to drive a golf cart because some of the cart path's switchback descents are so winding and steep.

Maybe they should offer an adventure golf cart driving school?

And, the foliage, approaching peak color, was spectacular, even if it did keep distracting me from the golf shot at hand.

Be that as it may, I seem to have survived playing two consecutive days, first climbing up and down the mountain course, and then in 47-degree weather at the lower-elevation Stowe Country Club followed by the six-hour drive home.

Today I'm feeling a bit bushed, and I seem to have cultivated a headache whilst sleeping last night, but I'm not as tired as I expected to be.

And, the best news is: I played pretty well for 27 or those 36 holes. (I shot horribly on the second-day front nine, but miraculously recovered on the back nine. Go figure.)

The only slightly consternating moment, health-wise, came when I knocked my head against the golf cart roof as I was climbing aboard. With my last platelet counts being below the magic "you can do anything you want" 100,000 mark, I immediately decided I would develop a brain hemorrhage from this bang on the noggin.

So far, however, my head knocking seems to have had no effect.

I guess it was just the Shklear genes—my maternal side—leaking through. My grandma Sarah, who swore she was deathly ill all the years I knew her, ranked among the world's great hypochondriacs. She only lived to 100.

But, she passed along a dominant hypochondriacal gene to both her grandsons named Bernard, and a recessive version to most of the rest of us.

Who knows? If I bang my head harder next time, it might knock some sense into me.

MDS: Yesterday's Blood Counts

The wandering MDS patient returned yesterday to the beneficent oncologist after 12 days traveling for the blood letting—uh—blood counting ritual.

Yesterday's counts:

• Hemoglobin: 11.4
• Platelets: 103,000

Now this seems to me to be significantly down from the last counts

• (12.4 and 169,000)

but Dr. O did not seem phased. "Your blood is looking good," she said, smiling as she emerged from the mysterious room wherein such numbers are determined.

"Those are lower," I replied cautiously when she reported the numbers. "Are they really okay?"

"It's the Vidaza," she reported brightly. "It makes the counts go down and then they come back up. Next week, they'll be back up, you'll see."

I hope so.

Returning to this ritual proved a bit strange, after missing it for what seemed to be quite a while but was really only a week. I guess it's an out-of-sight out-of-mind thing, but driving home I lapsed into rumination on vulnerability and remembering that I actually am supposed to be sick. I hadn't done that at all while traveling.

Perhaps I'm better off traipsing around the country being overfed like a cow being prepared for the stockyards. There, my consciousness is redirected to feeling over-stuffed and fat rather than ill.

Dr. O insisted cheerfully that we'll see higher blood counts next week.

Next week.

That's when I report for the next bone marrow biopsy.

Ah, the things we get to look forward to. Can't wait.

MDS Airplane Survivor

Home again. Home again, home again, home again, home. And, another airplane flight survived.

It's hard for a life-long beard picker (or, to be more kind in our nomenclature, let's say "beard stroker") to keep his hands away from his face for five hours—even if the airlines provides 40 movie choices, 150 CD selections, and a slew of video games and TV shows for distraction.

But, like a pair of mantras, the MDS advisories repeated in my head as the Grand Canyon, Rocky Mountains, Midwest farmlands and Smokies passed below us.

• Avoid sick people.
• Purell your hands often.
• Don't touch that!

And, so the daughter and I passed across the country apparently without incident. That's to say, at least, I didn't awake this morning with any apparent illness.

Still, I don't like being in airplanes any more. Everywhere I look is a surface that blasts the "Don't touch that!" mantra at me. Every sneeze and cough within the flying tube carries overly ominous menace.

If I work at it, I could readily become a full-fledged hypochondriacal paranoiac who's ready to take up residence in a sterilized cube.

Or, I suppose, it might be more rational to relax and just keep flying.

Or, maybe I could borrow Dorothy's ruby slippers, and intone her mantra. There's no place like home . . .

It worked for her.

Tired & Fat

As this west coast trip comes to an end, a few things are on my mind.

• How to get any exercise when traveling, since the typical day goes napless and is tiring.
• How to eat a whole lot less, especially if I'm not exercising.
• How, therefore, to create/maintain some kind of routine whilst in transit.

Not earth-shattering stuff, I realize. But, it's a pretty tiny mind I carry around, and this is what currently fills it.

Clearly, I need (or function best with) a normal routine:

1. up early
2. work early
3. eat
4. work some more
5. visit Dr. O (when necessary)
6. eat
7. nap
8. work some more
9. exercise
10. eat
11. laze through the evening to bedtime

This is hard to do on the road. Still, I'm supposed to be some kind of travel writer. So, I should be able to function on the road without becoming a tired, tiresome, run down lump who accomplishes nothing but eating and kvetching.

Not that's I'd kvetch about the eating I've done on this trip. Far from it.

But, to quote the late, great Phil Rizzuto—holy cow! Will you look at this belly? It's entering a room five minutes before I do! And, I'm half asleep when I finally enter behind it.

Could be it's time for a late-August New Year's resolution. Less food, far-far fewer sweets, and more exercise.

Sounds easy enough. I'll start tomorrow.

More MDS & Travel Fatigue Sets In

Five days on the road, and the message has been brought home once again—when traveling with Vidaza-treated MDS, you'd better schedule time for a nap.

Of course, it would be easier to handle the fatigue situation if this patient could sleep on airplanes. Unfortunately, the only time that's been achieved has been when flying internationally in first class cabins equipped with flat-bed seats. And, needless to say, that was only experienced on someone else's dime on a non-domestic airline.

So, flying from NJ to CA on Friday yielded no sleep.

And, charging from one family gathering to the next yielded no naps.

Thus, three days went by without naptime. By Monday, full exhaustion had set in and, after a half-day of sightseeing, this boy collapsed into mid-afternoon bed, passing out for a full 2-plus hours.

And still managed to sleep a full 8 hours that night.

Alas, yesterday, the vicious cycle began again. Even though the flying took only an hour, we'd left so much time for getting to the airport (stung by, and wary of, the horrendous Calif traffic), and we required so much time to get from the arrival airport to grandma's house (embroiled in Calif traffic), that naps weren't in the cards.

Today, however, will be a different story. Out of bed at an ungodly hour to complete an assignment due by mid-morning eastern time (no—I didn't wait til the last minute; the work came in whilst I was in flight on Friday; a very short lead time, indeed), I've completed the task and fully intend to sleep it off this afternoon.

It's clear that multiple non-nap days are not a god idea. Now, I just have to remember that—and so something about it.

MDS: Dare to Fly

Yesterday I dared to board an airplane for the first time since the MDS was diagnosed.

Call me irrational, but this I regard as some kind of minor victory over the mundane.

I'd gotten sick two of the last three times I'd flown—the last having been the ill-fated trip to Minnesota in March that spawned the stomach virus that revealed the MDS. So, the idea of spending 5.5-hours confined in that metal tube at 35,000 feet with 200 germ-carrying others had spawned a certain level of paranoia in me.

I entered the vehicle armed with Purell, vowing not to touch any surface that wasn't absolutely necessary, and to keep my damned fingers away from my face (not an easy task for a habitual beard stroker).

I actually did pretty well on that last score; didn't poke at my own face hardly at all.

I didn't touch anyone. Nor did I touch anything. Never allowed my fingers to caress the silken seat cushions, nor to pound on the plastic drop-down table. Didn't even touch the ground with my feet as I walked down the aisle.

You think I exaggerate?

Okay, I do.

Still, here I am, typing this all the way on the other side of the country while showing no apparent ill effects from this milestone air travel experience.

Of course, whatever horrible bug was traveling with me might need a longer gestation period than one day to manifest itself. But, I'll remain optimistic for the moment. After all, I still must fly home in a week's time. And, who knows what kind of exotic West Coast germs are lurking here to menace me?

MDS: Please Don't Touch!

I've taken my MDS-rattled body with its Vidaza shots-riddled arms to Lake Placid, NY, for a meeting of ski writers.

Yes, ski writers do continue to live through summertime. Some even function with a resemblance of normalcy. Well, as normal as ski writers can be.

But, I digress.

Here's the thing. We all gathered at the Olympic ski jumping complex for a welcome barbecue and jumping demo. (Yes, these fearless folks can jump in summer—but that's a whole 'nother topic.)

And, of course, upon seeing many old friends and colleagues, there was much hand-shaking and many smile-filled greetings.

And, upper arm patting. And arm gripping, as folks offered a "Hi! How are you?"

Nice.

But, these arms are shot full of holes and the residual bruises and soreness brought on by the Vidaza shots. Each touch is painful.

What's the etiquette in this situation? Does one

• repeatedly murmur, "Don't touch the arms, please?"
• wear a warning label on one's sleeve?
• grin and bear it?

Worse, for those who don't know—or don't remember—what this boy is suffering, a greeting laced with a flinch, a grimace and a "please don't touch" warning then requires a lengthy explanation of the MDS condition. And that's not the kind of upbeat conversation that goes with a welcome barbecue.

Just another of the MDS life's little challenges. It may be tedious, but it isn't boring.

MDS: Ready? Vidaza—Round 4

All good things come to an end, the cliche has it, and so, too, do our Maine vacation and, come Monday, the current Vidaza shot-free MDS period.

Too bad.

As nice as this vacation has been—

and it has been fine, finishing yesterday with a round of golf in the rain that was about as good a round as this duffer can play (perhaps I should always play in the rain)

—this three-week Vidaza hiatus has been better.

• no sore arms
• no itching shot sites
• no fatigue (good energy, as a matter of fact)
• no feeling bad
• feeling much better, actually, thank-you-very-much.

But, it's a new month and that means a new shot series that, understandably, I'm not looking forward to.

Perhaps being on the road has exaggerated a liberated, shot-free feeling; made the last series seem longer ago than the past series have seemed at the end of the break.

Or, perhaps just feeling more lively has made the MDS seem less real, more removed.

Whatever is causing me to sense distance between myself and the required shots, this time a false sense of security has crept in.

• I feel fine.
• So, why undergo these shots?
• Maybe I'm not so sick after all.

It rather reminds me of having to return to school at summer's end. Last year's teachers, homework, exams, etc., always seemed so long ago. Did we really have to start all that again?

This fourth Vidaza series is supposed to be telling. After it, Dr. O reevaluates the bone marrow and, if I understand all this correctly, she decides if (that?) the drug is effective and should be continued.

No pressure?

MDS: Traveling & Napping—It's a Challenge

Maintaining a sane sleep and activity schedule has, to date, proven vital to managing this MDS. This management, naturally, integrates one of my all-time favorite activities into the daily routine—napping.

Not that I didn't nap before MDS set in. I've long been a napper. But, the MDS now provides a ready excuse to call a time out and declare a siesta.

Self-disciplining a nap time into the day is easy at home. I mean, there's nobody around to distract or dissuade me. On the road, it's different.

• Firstly, we tend to cram in as much activity as possible when playing tourist.
• Secondly, we tend to get lost whilst doing that and, as such, self-imposed schedules often get tossed out of whack.
• Thirdly, the weather often forces activity changes.
• Fourthly, if one must daily return to the motel, lodge, B&B, hotel or resort, one can't stray very far from it.

(Especially when the B&B serves breakfast at 8, in quantities large enough, and delicious enough, that it takes an hour to eat. Forget about an early start.)

So it was Monday, a morning of intermittent rain and pervasive fog. We departed for Acadia well towards 10, spent two hours driving there and visiting the Visitors Center, and another hour-plus driving the Park Loop Road.

• We tried to hike a bit but, just at that moment, the rain arrived in earnest.
• We tried to lunch at Jordan Pond, famous for its popovers, but the wait was long—unless we wanted seating outdoors in the rain.

We then spent another hour-plus traveling to Bar Harbor and seeking the College of the Atlantic where, it was rumored we could get a unique and delicious lunch. After half an hour wandering the (admittedly tiny) campus, we finally found the lunch hall only to discover

• a) we were too late
• b) and, anyway, they don't serve the public in summer—only day campers.

By now the rain had stopped, and we were starving. We managed to find feed on the outskirts of Bar Harbor at a place called the Acadia Café, which serves only breakfast and lunch. We just made it. They locked the door behind us as we departed.

Now what? By the time we returned to the B&B, it would be too late to nap. And, besides, the sun had come out.

So? Shop.

An hour-plus was devoted fighting the downtown Bar Harbor traffic, finding parking, and wandering Main Street and the waterfront, including waiting 10 minutes on line for an ice cream (it wasn't me!), another 10 minutes lost-time trying to find a church with Tiffany windows (I remembered wrong where/when we'd passed it), and finally an two hours driving in search of, and visiting, a place called the Seal Cove Auto Museum, a remarkable gem filled with cars circa 1888-1915.

Finally, a return to the B&B was followed by leisurely pre-dinner wine sipping on the deck, and dinner.

What had happened to nap time? Gone. Vanished. Caput.

Come Tuesday (yesterday), we resolved to make nap time happen. And we did. From 2 to 3. And, we followed up that wise move with a night out at the local summer stock theater, which got us into bed 11-ish, and here I am at 6 a.m. working, which means whatever was gained yesterday at nap time has been lost over night.

To maintain honesty, since I'm a longtime, unapologetic napper, I can't completely blame MDS for screwing up my travel days. But, I can say this: it seems that the MDS allows for no more that two consecutive nap-free days. To try to do more means certain exhaustion for two or three more days.

It's a terrible burden, yes?, this demanding commitment to midday sleep. But, some rain or shine, or interesting pastimes or fascinating landscapes to explore, we must answer the call.

Today we nap.

MDSMitch Goes to Maine

Immediately upon arriving here in Maine, two things happened:

• fog set in
• exhaustion set in.

According the my astute mathematical calculations, seven hours were required to drive from Hartford to Southwest Harbor, on the edge of Acadia National Park.

Then it was delicately pointed out to me that we had arrived in Ellsworth too late to stop in Reny's Department Store, which closes at 5 p.m. on Sunday.

I first learned of Reny's, a Maine, family-owned chain of 15 stores, from friend, travel writer extraordinaire and Maine expert Hilary Nangle (or Travels with Hilary). You never know what you'll find in this place, but it has proven for me to be an excellent source of $3 reading glasses.

Anyway, if we were too late to stop at Reny's, it was noted, which is at least an hour's drive from Southwest Harbor, and we left Hartford about 10:15, we couldn't possibly have gotten here in 7 hours.

So much for math-by-Mitch. We see now why his math SAT's kept him out of his original college of choice.

We are here, however, no matter how long it took. And, it turns out that seven-plus hours of driving (it wasn't all driving—there were stops for necessities), may still be a tall order for a man with MDS. Because right now I can barely see straight enough to type this.

But, since the other arrival event—the fog—is obscuring all there is to see anyway, it may be that an 8 o'clock bedtime may not lead to any feelings of deprivation. Not even sleep-deprivation.

So, to all a good night.

Blood Counts Down—Golf Game Up

Funny thing. On Monday, en route to the Albany area to play golf on Tuesday, I "stopped in" to see Dr. O for my weekly blood letting.

Never thought I'd be visiting any doctor because I was "going to be in the neighborhood." But, there you have it.

Call it a lifestyle.

Okay, the little critic's voice in my head is saying, get off the philosophizing and get to the results. This week's score:

• Hemoglobin - 11.7
• Platelets - 89,000
• White Cells holding strong

Now, really. I do find this confusing. Why? Because my energy is better than ever. I'm feeling downright good.

Seems like every time I'm feeling good, the counts are lower.

I do understand that the red cell counts will go down during and immediately after the shots cycle. I get that part. Really I do.

And, I also grasp that the counts didn't dip as much as last time.

But, what I don't get is this: if the counts have gone down, why am I feeling so good?

"Shut up and play golf," my daughter said to me as we chatted on the cell phone as I drove north on the NY Thruway (yes, hands-free) . Well, not literally. But that was the gist of her comment.

So, I did. Played 18 with my friend Phil, walking a full round for the first time this summer and (get this) set a personal record.

Three pars in one round.

Wow. Maybe my golf score goes down as the blood counts go down? No, that can't be it. It's gotta be skill.

Yeah, right.

MDS: Golf Therapy

I admit it. I've been leaning toward the morose in these blogs recently. Blame it on fatigue and lack of work deadlines.

(Hint, hint—anyone out there who has an assignment or two (or 12) is welcome to send it along...)

In other words, as my old Mom used to say, "You don't have enough to do."

So, yesterday I dragged my sorry butt out for some golf therapy. Thunderstorms were in the forecast. No deterrent. This outing was as necessary as a baby's diaper change.

Indeed, no sooner had we started, than a drizzle began to fall. By the second hole, it was real rain. We sludged on, draped in slickers.

After a 15-minute suspension of play, we resumed on Number 3. Parts of the course were a quagmire. No matter. Because by then a funny thing was happening—I was playing about as well as I can.

• Twice I found myself putting for par (an unusual event for me).
• Suddenly my drives off the tee were not only traveling in the air (I'm famous for my ground-ball shots), but they were going straight.
• On Two and Five I accurately hit the green from 120 yards out.
• Putts were going where they were aimed.

Move over Tiger.

Sick? Who's sick? We were walking the course, slogging through puddles six inches deep ("standing water" in the golfer's jargon), and I'd totally forgotten I was afflicted. I wasn't even bothered by the upper arm irritation that inevitably comes with Dr. O's shoot-him-up routine.

We played to just off the green on Eight. Then the lightning appeared.

"Get me my one iron!" I called, as we cleared the course and headed for the clubhouse.

It's an old golfer's joke: Ho do you make sure you're not hit by lightning on the golf course? You hold your 1-iron to the sky. Not even God can hit a 1-iron.

Five minutes after we took refuge on the clubhouse veranda, the skies opened up. Rain in torrents. End of round.

We'd played eight holes; I'd been ScoreWorthy (double bogey or better) on six of them.

More importantly, I'd totally forgotten to be weary, in pain, depressed, grumpy, grouchy, crabby or ill-tempered.

Amazing what a little green grass, good company and physical activity will do. Clearly I've gotta do this more often.

MDS: On Overextension—How Quickly Can I Rebound?

We successfully returned from Cape Cod on Thursday. I devoted most of Friday to napping and trying to nap.

Luckily, a replay of the Mets actually winning a game was showing on TV, which served throughout most of the afternoon as both lullaby and reassurance. (There’s something calming about watching a ball game whose outcome is positive and known. No pressure. No anxiety.)

Today, Saturday, I’m semi-functional.

So, once again, the hard lesson is being brought home: it now takes at least a full two days to recover from overextending myself. Somehow I guess I’m going to have to absorb and remember this lesson. Denial can only take a person so far.

Still, overextended or not, the trip was worth it. It’s becoming obvious that, during in the past few months, I’ve been spending too much time at home without deadlines or anything much pressing to do, which only fuels the fatigue.

And, fatigue fuels discouragement, making everything seem more difficult.

As much as there are real physical aspects at work here, it’s a head game, this dealing with MDS. And, I’m still working on getting my head around it.

But, it’s a small head, after all (with such limited brain capacity!). So, we’re confident that some semblance of mental and emotional mastery will prevail at some point.