Cleaning to be Clever

It's been days, literally, since I washed or wiped anything in the apartment.

Honestly, I've gone from sitting to getting: up to get something to "eat" (i.e., gross nutrition to slide down my tube), back down to have it. Up to go to bed, down to sleep as much as possible. No dusting, washing, bathroom maintenance, dish washing--you name it.

It just so happens I'm good and organized about these things, and somewhat anal. I don't have to have the house that posses floors clean as santized plates, but I believe in the philosophy that my environment shapes my outlook--and cluttered dirty is infinitely inferior to wiped and organized.

It has been hard--I lose my breath quickly, and probably even more so because I'm so vigilant, expecting to die at any moment. Scott's biking and running partner Terry, a doctor at Kaiser Permanente, assured him that as long as I'm on Lovanox, my risk of the sudden death thing is vastly minimized, and that the discharging residents at the hospital were a bit overzealous in selling the danger I might be in. Fair enough, but it worked. Besides, I had issues already as we've seen...

Saturday, though, it's very pretty in San Francisco--the sky is perfectly clear and blue, though up here near Twin Peaks the wind is very active...the temperature is in the low 70's, and the windows are actually cracked in the apartment--for once, I'm not cold! And having walked into the bathroom I felt the shame of a toilet that might more appropriately be shaved rather than sanitized, soap stains on the sink surround, dishes in the kitchen, granite counter tops that looked pitted, things sitting out.
Oh hell no.

So, I did it. I washed dishes, cleaned the toilet up, wiped the sink and bathtube and briefly considered getting the sweeper out before I decided I needed to catch my breath. This is much better. I've gotten quite good at sitting quietly and amusing myself during periods of fatigue, and I now have limits I'd never have guessed at, but I'm not good at sitting like white in the middle of trash. It simply doesn't suit.

I have been surprised by the amount of muscle this treatment takes--the grinding, daily, non-stop way it fucks with your sense of self, security, happiness, wellness--you can have nothing nor take anything for granted. The doors it opens to other problems--embolisms, for example--are truly cruel sideshows fit for a Nazi circus. To pause is to admit defeat, and I came close to admitting it this week. Fear stalking me, dirt encircling me. Poor Scott, left to do everything, commute and work 70 hours a week had nothing left and no coampassion from me to support his efforts--I saved all of that for myself.

So, head out of the ass and into the toilet. It doesn't sound like it, but it was a step up.