Above is a headline from a website I visit. It’s the kind of article I loathe. Lady Gaga and others have all told the medica that they have PTSD over things that I consider ridiculously mild. Also, their “suffering,” in both cases, are for things in which they were both complicit but betrayed—and both of them make their revelations, I reckon, for attention. I also suspect they are self-diagnosing. I feel that their use (abuse) of the term belittles my experience and that of many others who suffer real trauma.
Woo hoo! Twenty-two hundred dollars in my tax refund! That, plus the unmistakable improvement in my asthma made Monday a great, great day. In fact, it was so great, I didn’t want to work in the yard. I’ve made lots of progress in the past few days, so taking a day off was in order. It felt so, so good to be free of coughing and wheezing all the time.
Mid-afternoon I went next door where Leo and Merrill had men in felling trees. It was fun watching them topple them in sections that will be milled to turn the wood into lumber for their deck. Then Sheba and I said goodbye and we headed into the woods for a lovely warm wonderful walk.
Today has dawned cooler than days of late. I lit the fire to warm the house up. I’ve got errands to run this morning and then today will roll out like every other day of the past stretch of wonderful sunny Spring weather. I’ve my front garden, the Fern Garden and the Campion garden to clean up.
I’m sick of bloody Bonnie Henry, our Provincial doc. I admire and respect her, but I’m sick of hearing her dull gentle and calm voice. I don’t understand why she must be the eternal voice of the pandemic. Surely there are other doctors on her team who could be conscripted to deliver the message.
People talk about Covid fatigue. Well, perhaps that might change if we had different spokespersons, with differing energy levels and tone and pitch, telling us what to do and explaining policy changes. She’s great, but she’s dull and overexposed.