It’s bloody perfect outside and it’s supposed to be like this all week — the week of my rejection or acceptance (not that I’m obsessed or anything).
And speaking of that decision: There are two people deciding if my play is accepted this week: Rachel and Bill. Rachel is the dramaturge; Bill is the artistic director of the company and Bruce’s dearest friend so he writes to me every couple of days to ask about Bruce.
Sunday morning’s visit with Bruce was particularly lovely because he was so welcoming when I arrived. He asked me to help him do his exercises and then he got into his chair — with just me; no nurse — and then we went into the garden. And I am using my phone to contact his friends via Skype and Face Time so he can talk and they can see him.
Then I walked the seawall. It was a bit too much, but until I felt that way it was spectacular. The smells and the sun on my back were wonderful. And I got the purple umbrella I need for the marble dress. It’s perfect.
I came home, bathed and chilled for a bit and then went back to see Bruce before one of my favourite things of every week: Being home alone on Sunday night.
I’m feeling quite happy, well adjusted to my condition, pointing and hand signaling in stores and walking alone and doing better.
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