Happy Spring Equinox Day!

 wednesday

The weather continues to amaze me. Put another way, the prognosticators continue to err. As Her Highness and I arrived home, the sun came out and the sky was entirely unthreatening. The light always boosts my spirits.

Puttering around the house, doing little chores here and there, and walking on a beautiful morning with our friends took up the morning hours. I discovered, during our walk, that my anxiety was still high from brain malfunction and the power outage. I had great difficulty speaking with my fellow dog walkers. For the past several years, I’ve been totally fluent with them because I see them three times a week. But not yesterday.

We had lunch at 11:00, as we do when we rise at 5:00, and then… AND THEN … I worked outside until it was time to Zoom with Aidan. I made a great start on cleaning the courtyard. I look forward to more work outside, finishing it up and then cleaning the deck. 

I’d lit a morning fire, but I let it burn out because it was so mild outside the house was too warm. It was an afternoon to be outside. It was thrilling to be in the fresh air with no coat and to be free of the horrid anxiety that plagued me from Sunday until yesterday when the power failure and inability to reach Dr. Shoja pushed anxiety about my role with SPACE out of my mind.

My Zoom call with Aidan was, as always, wonderful. My anxieties were all due to my broken brain. After our talk, I was back to a state of bliss about working with SPACE. Plus, it was 15° outside and brilliant and sunny, so Her Highness and I went for a wonderful and uplifting long walk.

Monday night was not the usual. Yesterday’s post was about Monday night.

thursday

I was up late on Wednesday night, later than I’ve been up for a long, long time. I didn’t go to bed until midnight. I was writing yesterday’s post, stoned on the impact of the movie On Waves and War. But I didn’t sleep in yesterday morning; I was awake at 4:40 and up and about at 5:00.

We’d had some rain overnight. Not a lot, but some, and we needed it. The ground is not super saturated as it usually is. The forest trees are going to have a very tough time this Summer unless we get a lot of rain this Spring (which began at 7:45 this morning). We could be in for a long drought this Summer.

After my four-hour morning puttering, we went out for our morning walk and then into the village for supplies. Pete and Ali are coming to dinner tonight and so yesterday’s first task was making a baclava-type tart with filo pastry, apples, spices and, of course, honey. I had SPACE work to do, but it would begin on the weekend. I had to focus on the dinner.

I was excited when we got home. I hadn’t baked for ages, especially anything sweet. I was keen about trying a new recipe that I improvised after seeing a photograph of a savory tart made with filo pastry. I felt excitement about everything: the warm weather, the lack of rain, my pets, my house, my garden and myself. The gloom is gone.

First, I made a mushroom topping for toasted baguette slices. Half a pound of shrooms of three different varieties including Lion’s Mane, sautéed in lots of butter with diced shallots and lots of garlic, then I added some dry white wine, and let it simmer. Once cooled, I added pine nuts that I toasted and mixed in a bit of sour cream. Salt, sugar, and voila, the most delicious canapé to serve before dinner.

Then, I made a dessert. I buttered a sheet of filo pastry, then added another layer of it on top and buttered it as well, then I scattered shattered pecans dusted with cinnamon over the sheets and pinched them into a narrow strip that I coiled into a tart pan. When I’d filled the pan, I poured the remaining nut mixture on top of the tart and baked it. When it was cool, I poured syrup that I made of sugar, water, cloves, honey and cinnamon all over it and put it in the fridge.

It looks great! If it tastes as good as it looks, I’ll be a winner tonight. Once done, I chilled for a while on the couch before taking Her Highness out for our afternoon walk. It didn’t rain all day, and it was 15° again, and today we’ll likely get some sunshine, and the weekend is predicted to be wonderful weather. I’ll get lots of yard work done.

The atmospheric river finally arrived, just not here. The Internet is full of stories and photos of flooding and pouring rain in Vancouver, but we’ve not had a drop of it all day. God bless the mountains of the big island and rain shadows! 

When we got back from our walk, I made the curry dipping sauce for the naan I’m serving. I bought the naan. I was too busy to make flat bread; it’s a three-day process.

Last night a change: No movie, no television. I just puttered around the house and doomscrolled a little before retiring early.

Today, I make laksa for tonight’s dinner with Ali and Pete, we walk with our friends in the morning, and I clean and tidy a little. Rain is predicted, but it never comes; tomorrow the sun comes for a few days, and I get to do some yard work. Woo hoo! And Spring arrived early this morning. Double woo hoo!!!

John and Bunny's coffee machine.

John is a big fan of triangles, and he is a master of fine woodworking.
This piece features his photos of Bunny's flowers, picked from the garden
and brought inside for admiration.

This is a miniature garden on an old stump. As I pass
it on our walks, I always clean it up.

This is growing in one of my woodsheds.

Sometimes the understory amazes me. This is natural and it's stunning.
It's not always brush under the trees.

The baclava tart that I made yesterday for tonight.

I Saw God Last Night

It’s March 18, 2026. It’s 21:15, and I just sat down to write.

I was born to a Québécoise actor. She said that she kept me for six months. I found her at age 40 and discovered, amongst many wonderful stories from her very dramatic life, that she was a fabulist. I think of her as a liar.  I didn’t seek to reach that conclusion it was forced on me.

 I was adopted from a Catholic orphanage at two-and-a-half. I’ve seen the papers; I know that to be true. I was adopted by Don and Connie. At age eleven, I started high school. I went into grade seven at Inglewood Junior High School where they streamed students. My two best friends went into the General Program. I went into the accelerated program and never hung out with them again. My school sent me to the university for math.

Puberty hit hard, Connie had a stroke that killed her personality. She went into the hospital for quite a spell and Don stayed with her. No one told me anything. I had no idea where they were for two days. 

In grade nine, in my English class with my favourite teacher, Mr. Lock, I suddenly went white blind. All I could see was sparkly white light. I started to be able to see things after ten minutes. I could see bits of things between the sparkles. When the lights stopped, I had a headache that made me want to die. I went home and went to bed. I wanted to be away from lights, and I put pillows over my head to kill sound. I lay there wanting to die. Soon, I felt a need to vomit, but I hate being sick so I fought the feeling, but when I did finally throw up, the headache instantly stopped.

I started having migraines early every Friday afternoon. It lasted for years. The headache would be for twenty-four hours, and I couldn’t sleep because of the pain. Lying in bed, however, was the only place to be. Saturday afternoon was when I would throw up, and then I’d sleep deeply until Monday morning. I was somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

On many nights, while I was awake, I would see my bedroom walls moving away. I’d watch them recede, knowing that it was impossible. It made me feel dreadful, so I would go into our bathroom, turn on the light, and lie down in the bathtub because I thought its shiny white walls would push more light into my eyes. Light was my antidote to seeing moving walls. And I laughed at kryptonite. 

I told no one. Are you kidding? Would you? I was fourteen. Connie had a fall and would never walk again. She moved permanently into care and Don began an affair with her nurse. I rarely saw him after Connie left. And the horrors carried on. I realized that I was gay. Nope. I realized that I was a faggot. The term ‘gay’ was to come into use much later. I was a passionate Catholic who turned into an illegal alien and a sinner. Guilty, body and soul. I quit the church and lost my faith.

Let’s go back to me spending two days alone when Connie had her stroke. There were two more significant events that were hints of insight that I failed to register. When I graduated from, high school, I’d been accepted, on scholarship, to the University of British Columbia. My high school had a ceremony in the gym. Don said he’d come. 

I told him where to meet me after the ceremony, and that we’d be able to enjoy the free refreshments. He never showed up. I have no idea if he explained himself. If he did, my memory of it is gone and it didn’t heal the pain of his decision not to give me two hours. Just two hours of his time.

Four years later I was graduating from UBC. I didn’t register to attend the ceremony, and then Don asked me if I was going to attend it. I told him I wasn’t, and he asked me to register. He said he’d come and that he’d arrange with the hospital to get Connie there in an ambulance. So, I registered.

The ceremony was very formal; there were fifteen hundred students graduating. At the end of the ceremony, the president and academic colour party lead the exit parade and we, the graduates, fell into line behind them, slowly sleeking out of the gymnasium through large double doors on the side of the building like a large anaconda.

The doors opened onto a large grass field. As the snake moved to exit the building, all the families and friends of the grads left their seats in the bleachers, and hurried through exit doors to get to the field to reunite with their grad and hug them: brother, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, etcetera. Our line, like Moses, parted the sea of loved ones, and as the grads saw their friends and family, they broke ranks with the snake to join them.

You know where this is going, right? I walked till I was alone at the end of the crowd. I’m seventy-eight. This happened when I was twenty-one, and I’m still talking about it. He/they were not there. I walked to the little RCMP hut on campus, sat on their porch and smoked a joint. I think I wanted to be arrested to hurt Connie and Don, but no one bothered me and eventually, I went back to the gym, deposited my gown and mortar board, and went home. Again, I have no recollection of an apology.

At age thirty-five, I had a house, a partner (Steve), no more headaches, a dog (Spike) and a cat (Miss Kitty). One routine Steve and I had and that I loved were our bathroom conversations. I would get into a bath in nice hot water, I’d smoke a joint and Steve would sit on the toilet—seat closed—with a glass of wine and we’d talk.

Remember the moving walls? Well, I had another late-in-life hallucination. This one, though, happened only once. On this night I’m remembering, I got into the bath while Steve got his wine, and it seemed like a slide show of images that changed quite quickly began in my brain. I didn’t question the oddity of seeing a slide show, instead I tried to figure out these images were that I was seeing.

And then it dawned on me: I was seeing images of my memories of my life with Don and Connie. There was a bazillion of them. The stopped when Steve started speaking to me. By then I’d seen hundreds of images. I didn’t answer him when he spoke to me. My back was bent, and my head was down. I felt crushed and black with sadness because I realized that in all those photographs, in every one of them, Connie and Don were absent.

This has been backstory to the story that made me sit down to write at 21:15. The real story gets started in 2016.

 •

At 17:10 March 18, 2026. I did something I’d wanted to do for a long time. I asked AI what the difference was between PTSD and CPTSD. The two share many characteristics and symptoms, CPTSD had three additional characteristics. PTSD is attributable to a short-term or single traumatic event. CPTSD is attributed to chronic long-term trauma and most often because of childhood abuse. This turned out to be profoundly coincidental. 

What I read told me Dr. S. was a clever diagnostician. I had all the symptoms that Google was listing for CPTSD. There was no doubt whatsoever.

 •

At 17:30, March 18, 2026. I slouched onto the chaise as I do every evening to eat my dinner and watch a movie.

On April 9^th, 2016, I woke up out of control of my body. I was thrashing around in my bed, and I couldn’t make myself stop. I was panting, and disoriented. Eventually whatever was happening slowed down and then stopped. I slowly got out of bed and then I went about my usual morning routine. Then it started happening again. When the second attack was over and I’d rested in a chair for a couple of minutes, I went to phone Dwight to ask him for help. When he answered, I couldn’t speak. All I could do was make a grunting sound.

I lived a short block from St. Paul’s Hospital, so I headed over to their emergency ward. It was impossibly scary and hard. I had another attack on the street and people looked at me like I was toxic.

St. Paul’s referred me to Vancouver General Hospital’s Pacific Speech Clinic. Dr. Morrison, the clinic lead, told me after all the tests, he concluded that there was nothing physically wrong with me and that the problem was “upstairs.” We were in a tower of VGH. I asked him, “What floor.” Me, who took math at UBC at age eleven, said that. I knew things were going to be different going foreward.

I’ve been seeing Dr. S., the referral psychiatrist, ever since. My ten-year anniversary of the onset of my condition is on April 16th. After eight months of semi-monthly appointments, Dr. S. proffered two diagnoses: Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, CPTSD, and Functional Neurological Disorder, FND. That makes me a certified nervous wreck. Think of me when you use the expression.

For years I struggled to heal. I was having up to twenty seizures a day, and I couldn’t speak. But soon I was able to say some words one syllable at a time. I would walk in lanes, and I’d wear ear plugs and two pairs of dark glasses when I went outside. I was over sensitive to everything, but particularly to sound and light.

I had to get out of the city. I moved to live on rural Gabriola Island. I bought myself a heartwarming log home on half an acre of land and got a dog and two cats. It’s dead quiet here. I don’t go out except for groceries, medical appointments, and periodic dinners with friends. It’s my prison paradise. I got speech assistance hardware and software, and island life soon had me having only a few seizures a month.

Those early years of living with a life-changing condition, I was focused on learning how to communicate and to cope with seizures. I couldn’t use the phone, and when I’d have a seizure in public, I’d be harassed by security guards that thought I was on drugs or was hauled off in an ambulance because someone called 911. I began experiencing killer cramps in the night that ruined my sleep, but when Dr. S. prescribed gabapentin, they stopped. 

What I have is a psychoneurological condition. I am averse to stimuli. Too much, and I have a seizure. This paradise, my private park, is my sanctuary. I try to never leave here except for essential errands and to walk the forest trails with Sheba, my Poodle/Bernese Mountain Dog cross. We love to do that, often several times a day. I rarely see people, and it’s comfortable and brief when I do.

After years of adjustment and learning from Dr. S., and from my lived experience, I learned how to manage myself. I felt successfully adapted. My friends here make the odd telephone call for me, otherwise, I get by. Almost everyone is very accepting and warm on this little island.

Dr. S. has never asked about my past. She doesn’t want me to talk about the past unless I want to. At the beginning of our almost ten-year anniversary, she told me that my symptoms were usually produced by trauma, and she asked me if I had experienced trauma in my life. I told her a bit of my story and about always being alone. That was it. We have focused on the present.

I told her one day that my experience with her is nothing like what I see in the movies when characters visit a psychiatrist. In the movies, the doctor is always explaining why the patient does or feels things, but I learn from myself. Dr. S. is a trusted and safe listener, and she’s a great guide and teacher, but it’s me healing me. 

One day, I told Dr. S. that I wondered whether my “breakdown” (she’s never ever used that word) was caused by the actual non-events of my childhood or the remembrance of those events decades later. I had to explain the bathtub slideshow, and when I did, she opened her response by saying, “Often, with neglected children ….” I didn’t hear the rest of what she said.

She went on to say that neglect does worse psychological damage to a child than physical or sexual abuse. I’ve always been a writer. For me, words matter. There’s always a right word; sometimes there is a magnificent word. Being a word freak gave the word, ‘neglect,’ great power to hurt me. It was another blow like the onset of my condition itself. I kept saying to people, “I do not want to be that guy!”

It was exceptionally difficult to hear that word. I told her she was re-writing my life story. It took months for me to integrate what she said and accept the label to which I was so strongly averse. My adaptation has been greatly helped by stuttering organizations. I saw a film on YouTube called Stutterer, and it made me wonder if my bad speech was a stutter, so I contacted the Canadian, British and American nationIn these organizations, I found emotional support and community in them.

One of the organizations is STAMMA. With them, I co-lead a support group for neurogenic stutterers like me. My co-lead is a speech therapist. Neurogenic stuttering is late-onset stuttering, often due to trauma, disease, or injury. Three years ago, a STAMMA staff member asked me to be part of a panel on PTSD and CPTSD and stuttering. It was a grand round for medical staff of three UK hospitals via Zoom. The panelists were two military men with PTSD and me. I felt very fey in insecure in the company of two such butch men.

Our presentation was ninety minutes. When it was over, the organizers wanted to interview the three of us about the experience. Those two fellows were the nicest, warmest, most wonderful guys. They were very welcoming and warm to me. I was thrilled by our experience, and more so when I heard them express such sincere respect for the things I’d said in the presentation. This too, turned out to be profoundly coincidental when I sat down to write at last night at 21:15.

 •

At 17:30 last night, I watched a movie on Netflix called In Waves and War. It’s a documentary about several American veterans with severe PTSD and who took psylocibin therapy in Mexico that vastly improved their lives. The therapy  was as powerfully life changing for them as was war, but war was destructive and this therapy was constructive.

What got to me first, was the story of two of the men as they describes their hallucinatory experience. One described falling through an endless tower of spinning images that he could see as he tumbled down the vortex through them. The other man described a tower of drawers into which he could  go to see its contents. In both cases, they described seeing their young life in the images, and that’s exactly my experience.

One man uses the expression, ‘PowerPoint,’ to describe what he saw. He comes closest to my experience, but for all these men, it wasn’t an examination of their war experience that healed them, it was seeing, accepting and processing their experience with children trauma that was so therapeutic. Again, this was my experience.

I was overwhelmed. These men and I are kindred spirits, just as the military men with whom I did the STAMMA workshop were. I have absolutely no doubt about Dr. S’s diagnoses. From what I read about symptoms when I Googled about the difference between PTSD and CPTSD, and from all I heard in the film last night, I have no doubt about anything and everything Dr. S. has said.

There was something very powerful and therapeutic for me in the film. It was other wordly to see how these men were changed into a man like me—gentle, loving and vulnerable—by their therapy. What they went through on a drug, I went through with Dr. S. The images, the realization of childhood trauma, the anger, the hurt, the sensitivity to stimuli, the desire to be solitary. They are me these men. I have never felt so masculine as I did last night. I have always felt weak and boy-like, never manly. But not last night. I was one with these human fighting machines.

I understand myself so much better. Watching the film was like having one of my best sessions with Dr. S. I’m a stronger man today. I am a man. Dr. S. is my psylocibin.

I can’t believe the coincidences that intensified my experience last night. Googling about PTSD and CPTSD yesterday afternoon and reading about symptoms, and my previous experience with military men, both these things made last night more profound and accessible. Both experiences made last night more profound. More than anything, discovering we all had childhood trauma and realized it through viewing images from our subconscious was extremely powerful.

I am a better man today thanks to that film.

Power Failure; No. Dr. S.

What a morning I had yesterday! 

First, the door to my pantry fell off. It’s been a semi-working sliding door for ages, so I got my tools and as I was fixing it, the power went off. I kept at the job using a flashlight, and when it was done, I was happy for about a second when I realized that I had a Zoom meeting scheduled at 11:00 with Dr. S.

I had two reasons to crack up my generator, so that’s what I did. Can one love a generator? I do. I have Tezspire in my fridge that must be kept in a low temperature range of just a few degrees. My generator returned me to a reasonable peace of mind once I saw that I could access the Internet and I could keep my medicine in safe storage.

It’s a huge area that is without power (2,900 households). I went to the Hydro website to see what was up. A tree fell across wires somewhere, so it won’t be too long a blackout. All the drama made me forget about my anxiety over me and SPACE. SO, with a relatively tranquil mind restored, Her Highness and I went for a walk in wonderfully warm air under overcast skies.

We’re going to have a warm week, and sunshine is predicted to return on the weekend. I’m extremely happy to walk in these temperatures. It makes me feel good. And walking in nature also heals me. I should have kept my cool last night and made plans to walk at first light. It’s kind of funny that the door falling off and the blackout helped me forget about my problems.

When we got back to the house, the Internet was gone so I fretted about not seeing Dr. Shoja at a time when I really wanted to see her. There are so many things to be anxious about! I felt defeated. At 11:00, I called Dr. Shoja on the phone. I’d left her a message earlier, but I wanted to be sure that she got it. Lucky for me, she had an opening this coming Tuesday, and I took it. And then I filled the generator with more gas, and we went for another walk and into the village to fetch some groceries.

We came home and saw blue sky. I took it as a good omen, and I was thrilled to come home to power. I set my sack of groceries down, shut down my computer and began to unplug all everything from the extension cords, plugging everything back into the sockets. As I was doing that, I heard a high ping and wondered what it was. It was my smoke detector going out. We’d lost power again. I was supremely pissed.

It came back on, and so did the sun. We were predicted to have an atmospheric river dump on us, but nada. We’re perhaps heading into a very scary Spring/Summer after such a dry Winter. We’ve been advised to prepare for a very bad tick and insect season because of the warm Winter. Sigh. I saw mosquito wigglies in my water collector already.

I was crushed all day. I had no energy for anything. The night of anxiety, and missing Dr. S. and two power outages did my broken mind in. I tried to nap, but couldn’t, so instead, at 14:15, we went for our third walk of the day, and it was along one because it was so nice out and my brain needed lots of exposure to wonderfully mild fresh air and the forest. I carried my coat and rolled up the sleeves of my hoodie because it was so warm.

I read when we got home, and then it was time for the regular nightly pattern to commence.

We’ve been told an atmospheric river was coming for three days, but we’ve had no rain. This morning is dry and very, very warm. Our walk with our friends is likely to be fabulous if the rain continues to hold off. I Zoom with Aidan today, and that’s my only obligation.

Self Destruction

Well … all that need be said about yesterday was that I did my taxes and mailed them in, I also did my gasoline refund application and mailed it in. (I get a refund on my gasoline purchases thanks to the disability tax refund.)

We walked with our friends in the morning is mist, and then I had some time to chill and read a little before lunch. Then we all ate, and after eating I read two more chapters and then got to work on my taxes and gas refund. When I was done, we went into the village to go to the post office, after which we went for our afternoon walk in Rollo Park.

I Zoomed with Steve and gushed about the Oscar show, and Bruno came by to pick up my stovetop burner. I’m chuffed by all that I have accomplished of late, and today I expect to finish up my massive Spring-up. I also have a Zoom call this morning with Dr. Shoja. But if I clear out all that needs to go from the closets, I’ll be almost done and ready to call Gabe Disposal to come and take all the crap away. I want to go through the shed before I call them in case there are things in there that can go.

Once the garbage has been taken away, I’ll have a very spacious and largely empty studio in which I can comfortably store all my outdoor furniture during the Winter. And then, I’ll carry on. You should see my car! It’s disgustingly dirty inside and out. That’s a big job I’ll be doing when it is warmer and then garden works begins for the season.

Last night I woke up at 3:10, and the first thing that came to mind was that I forgot the cover letter that should have been in the envelope with my taxes. I shall see how I can get the letter to the right employee at the accounting firm that always does my taxes.

Next into my mind was concern about my behavior in the SPACE board meeting. I spoke up quite often, and I have a deep seeded fear that I said something that bothered Aidan. This could all be in my mind because I’m a recreational self-loather, but I have been very unhappy since Sunday. I’m glad I see Dr. Shoja today. That may help.

I reckon that seeing all the photos and souvenirs of my life is part of this current state of unhappiness. Seeing them and discarding them may be part of the reason that Mr. Perennially Happy is so gloomy right now. But the major driver of my slide is my relationship with SPACE. I want to quit. I want to run away from the problem, but I know that all this is in my mind. I don’t think the others in the meeting feel poorly about me. It’s just me.

I can’t wait until 11:00 when I see the good doctor. Oh, I’m hurtin’.

My Day

Yesterday was My Day, so it got off to a slow start. I posted on the blog and attended to morning chores. Then I had a long hot shower. I try to keep my showers short to conserve water, but not yesterday morning. In my cold bathroom, the hot water felt like a benediction.

Then we went for a walk in Elder Cedar and as we were coming to the end, Sheba ate some shit and I bolted. I waved my hands at her, fending her off from following me and I hightailed it to the car. I let her watch me drive out of the grove alone. Yes, I am a shit sometimes.

I waited for her to catch me up, and then, when we got home, I would not let her in the house. As my anger weakened, I fetched her and I fed her a very light lunch, but I also talked warmly to her and patted her as I explained, as though she was understanding me, why I got so angry. Nothing beats making up!

I wanted to vacuum even though it was My Day. I wanted to enjoy a clean house on my special day, but the vacuum sucked. Truthfully, it didn’t suck, and that was the problem. I figured the hose was clogged, but it being a cheap vacuum, I could not remove the hose. I thought I would get a new one, but then I had an idea.

I fetched a wire hanger from the closet and cut and bent it into a long strait thick wire with a small hook on the end and cleared out a ton of crap. Now my vacuum practically sucks up the carpet off the floor. I reckon it’s been plugged for a long time. I felt chuffed to have fixed it; vacuuming was efficient and a pleasure.

Then it was time for a great pleasure of My Day. I watched three vloggers posts to which I subscribe. I love the people who make these videos I watch, and I really enjoy seeing them make progress on their renovations. One lives in France, a lovely couple (the husband is to die for gorgeous) live in Ireland, and Martijn and Ela live in the Alps in Italy. I have been watching them for four years—200 episodes so far.

Then I did some chores (on My Day!) before Zooming with my fellow board members of SPACE. Again, I felt chuffed because Aidan was very gracious and generous in praising the work that I’ve been doing. I knew I was making a significant contribution, and I’m not doing it for praise. I’m doing it because I’m such a huge fan of Aidan and his objectives. I’m proud to be working on making the world a better place for dysfluent people. Still, it feels good to know that my work is valued by everyone.

On Saturday, when Sheba and I went for our afternoon walk, I felt a sudden pain in my shin, and when I went to see what was going on, I realized that I must have hurt my leg somehow and it had bled. It must have happened much earlier in the day because my pants were glued to the wound and that’s why I felt pain. When I sat down in the van, it pulled my pants off the wound, and it stated bleeding again. My sock was wet with blood, and I had to wash my shoe before we went walking.

Today, when I was cleaning the cattery, I sat down to clean the litter box and noticed what looked like grease on the inward side of the sleeve of my hoodie. And then I noticed blood on my jeans and so I searched for the cause and discovered a wound on the back of my hand at the base of my little finger. When I came inside, I found dried blood spots on the kitchen floor.

I don’t feel myself getting hurt. The only reason I know to bandage wounds is because I discover blood in my clothes. I also often bleed in the night, and I think it’s because of my fingernails, so now I keep them clipped very short.

Once I’d bandaged my hand, it was time for our second walk before dinner with the Oscars. I was ambivalent about the show, but I’m very happy that I watched it. I thought it might have been the best Oscar telecast in decades. The “In Memoriam” section, honouring cinema artists who died in the past year, felt sincere for the first time ever. It wasn’t about the guest singer, as so often happens; it was heartfelt and very moving. And Conan O’Brien was very good.