Metadebating

Current ABC News online headline: Bush: Enemy without conscious.

mollpeartree has a terrific new entry that I might've referenced here even if it didn't include a valuable contribution to the ongoing Iraq debate in my journal. One of the more serious drawbacks to conducting so much of the debate in German is that my more erudite friends are loath to contribute, lest Babelfish created straw men for them to argue against. I don't do enough to encourage nibadi to post in English, since I relish the opportunity to hone my language skills. But it's easy to get frustrated in a foreign medium and resort to simplistic or dismissive arguments. On the other hand, it can be liberating; I never would've discussed the Nazi regime in such bald terms in English. (As this example shows, liberation isn't unambiguously a good thing.)

Vacation from living

Here we are, in the uncharted territory I foresaw yesterday. Nuphy's managing very well, but still not so much so that I feel comfortable leaving him alone tonight. Also, my original plan to accomplish much within my own four walls receded this morning as I felt myself coming down with a cold. Rest, napping, tea, and zinc has, at very least, softened its impact and I hope to pick my planning evening with monshu tomorrow. A friend will be coming tomorrow night to take over from me, so I can kiss guilt feeling goodbye. Right?

Nuphy has been complaining of fatigue. Partly it's the result of a sudden change from a 24-hr IV regime to a 14-hr one, partly it's the miserable November weather, and partly it's, I think, the context. From a hospital bed, you mentally contrast your current state with other states of sickness. When you're at home, however, the memories of what you did when you were well overwhelm you. Why is it so tiring to climb these stairs? Why does 71 degrees suddenly feel so cold? How am I ever going to shower in the morning?

A similar thing happens to me when I look at him. The first time I saw him in his easy chair, his visage was so skull-like, it was shocking. It's the same head he had Thursday, but it doesn't look the same when it's not framed by sterile white sheets. He's traded in his gowns for clothes that barely hang on his body and, when he calls me, his voice sometimes sounds like it's coming from one floor farther away than it is.

With all the windows and doors closed, his neighbourhood is so quiet that all we ever hear is the occasional sound of his neighbours on the roof or parking their cars. I almost feel like I've left Chicago to stay in some suburban villa. We haven't watched any t.v. or listened to any music and the streets grow wet without any patter of rain.