The Prodigal Suitcase

It's frustrating to feel myself falling back into physical pain, and even more frustrating because I felt so good in Amsterdam that I halfway convinced myself I would be able to do some kind of mind-over-matter deal and keep feeling that way after I came home. I know that doesn't make any sense, but when you're in pain almost all the time and then suddenly for two weeks you aren't, you realize that you've forgotten what it's like to not be hurting, and the realization that freedom from pain is even possible does some kind of number on your head. At least it did on mine. It's like, "Oh yeah -- THIS is how you don't hurt! I can do this! It's easy!" Complete bullshit, of course, of the sort I'd smack anyone else for suggesting to me.

My god-aunt Anna Mary passed away while I was gone. We used to work on St. Joseph's altars together. The funeral is this morning and I'm trying to convince myself to go, but I'm not moving very well today, and I look very different from the last time I saw this family, and I don't want to confuse or worry them when they are already grieving. I don't mean gender stuff exactly, but the combination of having lost weight, having very short hair, and walking with a cane sometimes makes people think I'm sick. I recently had one friend ask if I was doing chemo.

My suitcase finally arrived home yesterday afternoon, rifled by the TSA, nice Dutch luggage tag destroyed, and a big crack down the side. At this point, I'm not sure I would put myself through the horrors of air travel again for any lesser destination than Amsterdam. We're not yet sure how well our cheeses survived the delay in getting home -- I just shoved them in the refrigerator as soon as I unpacked them -- so there will be cheese examination and diagnosis later.