I seem to be going through a rough patch these last few days beginning Friday evening.  I think (and hope) that the nadir was Monday when I didn't feel like a human being, let alone like myself.  My body has a mind of its own, and my mind doesn't seem to have much body to it.  I felt better yesterday, and we went out to dinner last night; today I feel pretty good.  Twice in the last three days I've slept till 8:30, unheard for me (although the nights were interrupted a few times by trips to the john), so I hope the added rest is helpful.  This, too, shall pass...and is passing.

There were a few bright spots.  Sunday afternoon an old friend and his husband of slightly over a year (they got married in New York's Central Park) came for a visit.  It had been at least four years since I'd seen Dwayne, and I'd never met his husband.  A couple of friends have asked me since I've done two blogs on what not to say to someone living with cancer, what they should say.  It seemed to me that Dwayne handled it very well.  After the initial introductions, hugs, and drink offers, he began with a number of questions about how I'm feeling, what the effects of the meds are, whether I'm in pain.  I think a PLWC likes having the cancer acknowledged, not avoided and appreciates a frank, matter-of-fact tone.  And then when that part of the conversation had come to its natural end, we moved on.  Since we hadn't been able to go to their wedding party in KC because I was in the abduction brace, there was a lot to talk about and pictures to share.  I don't think people should avoid talking about their own good times.  It doesn't sound like gloating.  PLWC know that life is going on and, I think, are happy to share in it, even vicariously.  It was fun seeing Dwayne again and meeting Scott, but Sunday wasn't a very good day and after about 75 minutes, I suddenly lost my energy.  Dwayne and Scott noticed, wrapped up the conversation, and left.  Again, I think it's important for someone visiting to be sensitive to the other's energy level.

Another high note was spending parts of two sunny afternoons sitting on the back deck editing the manuscript of a novel by my friend and colleague Tom Averill.  The novel has already been accepted for publication (it's his fourth to be published), so I knew there wasn't going to be much to do, but I had my trusty number two pencil in hand.  I'm afraid this time I didn't make any major contributions, since except for a 'which' that needed to be 'whom' and a couple of missing tildes, the novel was in fine shape.  I like editing my colleagues' work.  In part, it's good to feel trusted, but even better is seeing the work that my colleagues are doing and appreciating how creative or scholarly it can be.

I've finally abandoned my two months' effort to read David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest.  I've read 20% of it (as Kindle measures things) without one moment of pleasure.  I thought it was going to be 'madcap' and 'zany'--not that those are adjectives that would entice me--but it's absolutely humorless.  Since Wallace has been compared to Joyce, I thought the experimentation would be dazzling, but the novel just seemed plodding.  A more just comparison might be O. Henry to Henry James.  The turning point in my masochistic reading came in what was obviously meant to be a set piece: a scene in which the grandfather of Hal Incandenza (as close to a protagonist as the novel has) delivers a very long and very boring monologue to his son.  As he speaks, he drinks, and the monologue is supposed to become more revealing or touching.  The speech goes on for many, many pages, and it is completely banal.  It's half-baked philosophy and quarter-baked psychology, and the final drunken revelation is worthy of a Lifetime movie.  I never thought I'd find myself agreeing with Harold Bloom, a critic who was almost my undoing at the comprehensive exams for my doctorate, but Bloom wrote that Wallace "can't think and can't write."   Exactly.