I remember an April day Karen and I spent on Dartmoor back in the late '80s. In the middle of that sunny spring morning, a dark squall blew in, with low clouds, hail and eventually snow. Just as quickly, the unbeatable British blue sky returned, and the sun beat down. Again and again the storms drove through, then blew themselves away, leaving a fresh-scrubbed blue world.
That's how the past 24 hours have been. Dark gusts of accusation and despair strung with intermittent deceptive domestic calm. I put down my umbrella and take off my raincoat just in time to get soaked in the next shower.
Cancer's Psychological Warfare continues.
That's how the past 24 hours have been. Dark gusts of accusation and despair strung with intermittent deceptive domestic calm. I put down my umbrella and take off my raincoat just in time to get soaked in the next shower.
Cancer's Psychological Warfare continues.
[Postscript: when the sun comes back out after a storm, it's hard to remember what all the fuss was about. Could it really have been a life and death struggle just a moment ago, or was it just a slightly embarrassing overreaction? As in the mountains, so in Cancer PSYWAR.]