What happens when illness interferes with real life?

I’m bummed out. I admit it. I had a lovely day planned: tea with a friend I have not seen in ages followed by a PALS visit at the seniors’ residence. Jelly was especially pumped about the potential for couch time with the seniors.

Then I got a call from the lovely nurse practitioner at the cancer centre. I had had routine blood work done yesterday. Stephanie informed me I’d gone from kinda anemic to mucho anemic. I needed two units of blood pronto, i.e., the next day.

Looking back on the last few weeks, I am not surprised by this news. I’ve not been not functioning well, as I’m sure J. could confirm. I’ve had an increasing number of bad, i.e., utterly exhausted, days. On Monday, I was napping by 11 a.m.

I didn’t take well to illness interfering with my real life for the day. As the medical needs associated with my illness are escalating, I am more often cancelling my best laid plans with short notice.

With a chronic progressive illness, little parts of me are being chipped away over time. First there was my livelihood and the joy of helping others. Then all the evening social outings that fell well past my bedtime. Lately, even yoga is a stretch. (Ha ha.) And dog walks are fewer and farther between. Having the energy to cook or bake is often too much these days. Unfortunately, this list may only get longer in the coming months.

But some activities I will maintain if they kill me. Yesterday I contacted my PALS team lead and told her I would be bailing on our visit today. And then I wrote the lovely ladies at the PALS office, the ones who initially welcomed my volunteering despite my precarious medical status, informing them of my situation and asking if I could continue participating despite my unreliability of late.

I was overwhelmed by the responses I received. It may be heartwrenching to tell people that I’m dying, but it’s all the moreso to receive such warm and supportive responses. The sadness at the news, the compassion and caring and kindness in response, and the openness to my doing what I can with PALS until I cannot possibly participate any longer…I was deeply comforted by their words.

I will do what I can to maintain a life outside my illness, knowing that sometimes medical needs will have to take precedence. It won’t be easy, and I’ll resent days like today when my real life is interfered with, but I’ll deal with it. Not with grace, mind you. I did say I was bummed.

Ironically, after waiting 5 hours at the cancer centre today, I learned that, because of my complicated body, my transfusion would have to wait until tomorrow. Had I foreseen this turn of events, both Jelly and I could have had our planned visits. Jelly missed her couch time for nothing.

Tomorrow morning, after yoga, I will head to the hospital for a dose of IV iron followed by the two units of whole blood awaiting me. Hopefully, these interventions will help vanquish those 11 a.m. naps, at least for a little while. Jelly and I have a PALS visit this Sunday. Couches and cuddles await.

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Living while I’m dying

That last post was not easy to write. I don’t like having bad news, nor sharing it. Who wants to read a story with such a sad ending? It turns out many people do. Thankfully, only a few of those people LIKED my post.

The reality of my health challenges has not yet hit. I may have suspected bad news was coming, yet that suspicion didn’t temper my surprise. Shock is a common response to learning of a terminal illness. Grief is funny that way. I’ve worried about dying for as long as I’ve been sick, but having to face my own demise head on? That’s another matter altogether.

Now that I have the results of my biopsy, I feel unexpected periods of calm, as if I’m walking around in a fog. Every so often my panic erupts, but I shove it away quickly. Thank goodness for my defences, which help me from falling to pieces at times like this.

I even feel some relief at the news, as weird as that sounds. I don’t want to die, of course, but the threat of death hanging over me for so many years has been wearying. I’ve spent 18 years containing my anxiety about a situation I have no control over. If only I could sustain this relief.

How can my emotions be so chaotic? I think it’s because my body doesn’t feel any different today than it felt yesterday. I know that my health is declining–my biopsy results confirmed that–but my body has not registered these changes. I’m not in hospital, and I’m still able to go about my day. How do I accept that my life may be ending when I don’t feel all that sick?

When I am faced with a crisis, I often get stuck. I can help other people manage their stresses–that’s what a psychologist does–because the solution is always easier to see from the outside. But I’m on the inside this time, and I can’t seem to find my way out. Not worrying about dying is far easier said than done.

I was telling a friend how distressed I’ve been, and she wisely reminded me that focussing on death while I’m still physically well is a waste of precious time. She suggested I might as well keep living for as long as I can. J. has been saying the same for years whenever my anxiety about my health has escalated. My life overfloweth with very wise people. I should listen to them more often.

This afternoon, I had the perfect opportunity to stop feeling sorry for myself while Jelly and I attended a PALS visit at the university. The stressed students needed comforting. Jelly’s howls echoed through the hallways as we approached the visiting room. Once we arrived, Jelly kissed and cuddled dog-loving students for 90 minutes, in between naps. For those 90 minutes, I put my worries aside and remembered that I’m not dead yet.

If you catch me moping over the next while, please tell me to snap out of it. Sometimes an outsider’s wise perspective is all I need.

Several hands petting Jelly as she lays on the floor, head raised

How Canadian Blood Services saved my life

Woman's hand spraying and wiping a table clean, bucket in backgroundThis afternoon. I will be volunteering for the last time at Canadian Blood Services. I am hoping for a busy shift, so I can serve a lot of soup and dole out a lot of cookies. Time passes quickly when all those donor chairs are filled.

I owe a great deal to CBS. We are blessed with easy access to blood products when we need them in Canada. In the past, I have needed them. Whenever I did, the gift of life was there, thanks to the generosity of donors. When I was bleeding internally several years back and doctors couldn’t easily identify the source, a series of transfusions kept me alive.

I seem to be entering a phase of my illness where I may again need frequent topping up. Last week I was infused with mega doses of platelets. On Friday, I was due to receive two units of whole blood but the transfusion was cancelled last minute when my body decided to ramp up its own blood-cell production. I am leaving CBS as my need for its products is rising.

Sometimes I worry about how the clinic will run without me, which is ridiculous because it was running well without me before I got there and will thrive with the fresh blood of new volunteers. I’m not irreplaceable. But who can better thank the donors for coming? Who will be able to stress how important their donations are from personal experience? And who will wipe the tables after the donors leave? There’s a stray cookie crumb hiding on every table.

I have worked with many wonderful volunteers over the past year and a half at CBS. Many are students seeking entry to science programs or medicine. Others are grown adults like me who have some connection to blood donation through their own or others’ need. Some have set ways of doing things, while others go with the flow.

Some volunteers provide soup with one package of salty crackers while others give two packs; some push the cookies while others encourage fluids, offering juice or pop; some stock the shelves while others schmooze with donors. There have been long discussions over whether to place the spoons facing up or down in the dishwasher. This I do not feel strongly about, although I’ve learned that others do.

Somehow I have become obsessed with wiping the tables. Whichever shift I’m on, I assume the task of cleaning up after donors leave. Call me the table-wiping overfunctioner. Knowing I am quick to eradicate table messes, my fellow volunteers have learned to underfunction, i.e., to neglect that task altogether. Take note, all you overfunctioners out there: leave work for others to do; they will do it in their own time.

It’s a good thing I’m leaving, then, since cleaning tables is a good skill for all to acquire, especially the young ones who will soon move out of their parents’ homes. I’ll do one final swipe before I depart this afternoon. Then I’ll say good bye, knowing someone will pick up the cloth within minutes of my leaving. Maybe the new table wiper will do a better job than me. Maybe I’ll surprise J. and start wiping counters at home. Stranger things have happened.

The challenges of ladling hot soup

Soup in bowl with crackers on side

Do you folks recall when I started volunteering? In the summer of 2016 I started applying for positions, unsure whether I’d be accepted for work because of my leukemia. Neither agency I approached seemed to exclude me on the basis of my illness, so unexpectedly I ended up with two volunteer gigs rather than one. I started at Canadian Blood Services in September 2016 and at PALS with Jelly a few months later.

I never thought I could sustain two weekly commitments for long, as much as I enjoyed both. I figured keeping up that pace would draw on too much of my precious energy. Some weeks were tough but I managed to attend the vast majority of my scheduled shifts. My health has been so remarkably stable over this time that there’s been no need to bail.

But, as you well know, loyal readers, my health is changing in ways I don’t yet understand. And these changes have necessitated an increasing number of doctors appointments. Jelly and I had to bail on our scheduled PALS visit last week because of my corkscrew procedure, for example.

Over the next while, I anticipate ramping up my time at the cancer centre, whether for appointments with Dr. Blood Lite, blood transfusions (thank you dear donors), or other procedures. Sometimes I’ll have sufficient notice to work around my volunteer schedule but at other times, like last week’s biopsy which I was informed of the day prior, I will not.

After considerable deliberation during one of my sleepless nights–I’m trying to make my middle-of-the-night awakenings productive–I gave notice at Canadian Blood Services a few days ago. I will have one final shift next week and then I will no longer be spending my Monday afternoons feeding people soup, juice, and cookies. I can no longer manage the two hours of heavy lifting–those soup cans weigh a ton–and dishwashing and table wiping and encouraging the donors to come back again soon. I am so wiped by the end of my shifts that even the drive home through rush hour traffic is becoming a challenge.

I could have left PALS instead, but our visits are shorter and less physically demanding. I transport Jelly to the visit site, sit on a chair while Jelly lays on the floor, and don’t move much until the visit is over. Also, Jelly has told me she’d like to keep PALSing, especially since some days her ageing body is not up to a walk. These visits get both of us out of the house with minimal effort.

Still, CBS had its own rewards. I was thrilled by the sight of a busy clinic, or of regular donors reaching milestone donations. I loved meeting first-time donors who realized the process was a breeze and planned to return. And I took great pride in eventually mastering soup ladling without major spillage or skin burnage. Not everyone belongs in food services.

I was an abject failure at one responsibility, however: I panicked on the rare occasion when someone fainted after donating. My ability to manage such crises did not improve over time. Thank goodness others could step in when I froze. We all have our shortcomings.

The Syrians are coming! The Syrians are coming!

Over the holidays, I was seated beside a lovely fellow at a get together. Out of nowhere, he said he didn’t understand why Muslim women had to wear head coverings now that they were living in Canada. “They should dress more like us,” he said. Then, to my alarm, he added, “We won’t be able to tell if they are terrorists.” Whoa! I wasn’t expecting that.

I challenged him politely, suggesting I thought everybody should be able to choose the way they dressed. Maybe I was too polite, though, because he then asked me if I agreed with him. I fumbled. I didn’t want to offend someone I’d known for a long time and would likely see again, but I strongly disagreed, and told him so. The conversation was unsettling.

I frequently interact with Muslim women wearing traditional garb in my day-to-day life. They may be students at the university who pet Jelly during her visits, or professional women, or moms shopping with their children at the grocery store. I’ve never worried that they were terrorists because of the way they were dressed. Why would I? We’re all more similar than different.

Thank goodness my unsettling experience was followed by a quick counterexample when I volunteered at Canadian Blood Services on New Year’s Day. For weeks now, the volunteers had been reminded that a large group of recent Syrian immigrants would be donating blood that day for the first time in Canada.

When I arrived, the clinic was hopping. I’ve never seen it so busy. Syrians filled every donor bed. Giving blood is ingrained in the Syrian culture because of all the political unrest: when they were back home, they never knew when a sister or child or friend might need blood, so they gave just in case. They may have donated blood regularly in Syria, but they were out of practice since their arrival here.

The Syrian group was accompanied by a bevy of interpreters to ensure they understood the process. There was genuine camaraderie amongst the (mostly) men. It was a social outing for them, a time to hang out with friends. I couldn’t understand their language, but it looked like some donors were being chided by the others for being nervous. Each donor had the company of a friend or two to chat with while he gave. We volunteers were to provide refreshments to these donors after they’d finished donating.

I am pleased to report I didn’t spot one terrorist among the group. These were warm, friendly fellows who seemed happy to be there that day and grateful for the chance to socialize with fellow Syrians. Whatever stresses they’d surely endured since arriving in Canada seemed irrelevant for that short time. They were simply enjoying the company of compatriots.

I wasn’t the greatest volunteer that day. I was too busy tearing up, astounded as I was by the generosity of this group of newcomers. It was quite a sight to see such a crowd making an effort to give back to the country that had welcomed them. Know that I’ll gladly take your blood if I need it, Syrians. I, for one, thank you for donating.

Nurse with Syrian blood donor making peace sign as he donates

A Hanukah Miracle

Two reindeer visiting with people on sidewalk

This time of year, everyone focuses on the Christmas miracle. So what if a baby was born of a virgin? There are many other miracles happening all around us. Take the miracle of Hanukah: the Maccabees lit the smidgen of oil found in the desecrated Temple and it lasted for 8 days! If that’s not a miracle, what is? Who’s the wondrous one who thought of making coins out of chocolate? Yet another Hanukah miracle.

Then there are the many local miracles that happen this time of year. Imagine being a visitor at our local children’s hospital this week, only to look out a window and spy four local real live reindeer walking by. Nifty.

J. has been a busy little elf this past while performing Christmas miracles in support of the children at the hospital. She helped Santa dole out gifts to the inpatients, and sold gifts at a gala in support of the hospital. If she asked you, after purchasing your $250 ticket to attend this gala, “Would you like to buy a $40 gift for a child who will be hospitalized over Christmas?” Only a scrooge would say no.

Last Sunday she co-opted our special friend to volunteer with her at the Teddy Bear Toss, an annual Calgary Hitmen hockey game. Each year, attendees throw teddy bears onto the ice following the first Calgary Hitmen goal. The bears (or other stuffies, including two dreidels that J. saw) then need to be sorted into bags to be distributed to the children at 60 recipient agencies, including the hospital.

Our special friend is always dressed to the nines whenever she goes out, so let’s call her Ms. Glam. After hours of sorting stuffies, Ms. Glam realized she had lost the precious watch she had worn to complement her outfit that day. The watch was a beloved Christmas gift from her adoring husband last year. By the time she realized her wrist was bare, the watch could have been anywhere, including the garbage or amongst the bags of 24,605 stuffies. She figured it was lost forever. She accepted that perhaps she hadn’t made the best choice of accessories that day. She was not happy.

J. emailed her volunteer coordinator, described the lost watch as best she could, and figured that would probably be the end of it. J. firmly believes that, however unlikely the outcome, she always has to ask. Had the watch been found and J. had not alerted her coordinator to the loss, how could it ever make its way back to Ms. Glam?

Miracle of miracles, J. received notice last night. “I think we’ve found the missing watch.” An employee at one of the stuffie-recipient agencies found the watch when she unpacked a bag, and let someone know who let someone know who…you know how this story ends.

Ms. Glam couldn’t believe her luck. She’d thought it so unlikely that the watch would be returned that she had already replaced it. This afternoon, Ms. Glam is returning her purchase since it turns out she doesn’t need a new watch after all.

So be sure to ask, even if the outcome is unlikely, and then don’t give up hope. And don’t forget that people are basically good at heart. You already knew that, but the occasional reminder won’t hurt. Oh, and leave your special watch at home if you’ll be sorting stuffies.

It takes an introvert to know an introvert, or does it?

Guy lying on floor says:

During our PALS visits at the university last week, Jelly became quite tired early on, as she often does. Despite the chaos all around her–other dogs, exam-fearing students–she lay down and fell asleep. I apologized to the student petting her at the time, telling her that Jelly often finds the visits exhausting. The student responded, “Maybe she’s an introvert.” Kids these days. They’re so smart.

I’d never really thought of Jelly as an introvert before, which is odd because I am one myself. Introverts like their alone time. They may also enjoy being with others, but they can find social interaction draining. Extraverts, on the other hand, are energized by spending time with others. They leave the party wound up rather than needing a nap. Most of us are ambiverts, falling somewhere in the middle.

Sometimes I compare myself to my extraverted friend, Ms. Bubbly (it’s Dr. Bubbly to you, but Ms. has a nicer ring to it), who is at the other end of the spectrum from me. She’s constantly running from one social event to another. I don’t know how she does it.

Ms. B always invites me to the frequent large social gatherings she holds at her home. She understands when I politely decline each and every time. She knows I’ve always found such get togethers overwhelming.

Later this month, Ms. B will be hosting her annual Hanukah party, which I have already declined. I need to save my limited social energy for two engagements we’d previously scheduled for the nights following. This means I will not get to eat any of the 12 dozen latkes she has ordered for the occasion. (You read that right: 12 dozen. She has a lot of friends.) The authentic latkes alone spur my motivation to go, but my introversion still won out. That and the potential for bruising from having to battle the crowds to get to the latkes.

Ms. B and I often go for coffee after Sunday yoga, a sign that introverts do not avoid all social interaction. They may prefer more intimate gatherings, and they enjoy solo time to regroup occasionally. When we go out, Ms. B and I have lovely visits during which we catch up on each other’s lives. I relish this one-on-one time.

I can manage small groups, so long as I don’t overdo it. Two major social engagements last weekend necessitated a day on the couch. My introversion long predated my leukemia, so I can’t blame my health. If I hang out with you, whether alone or with others, and my eyes start glossing over after a time, please trust it’s not you, it’s me.

Now that I think about it, I realize that Jelly hasn’t fallen far from this introverted tree. She prefers small groups of dogs, cowering in the bushes when larger packs approach. She, like me, assesses any situation fully before jumping in with four paws. And just as I enjoy my alone time, she is fine to amble the off-leash park on her own, stopping to greet only the most fragrant of dogs. When she is overwhelmed by a group, she does exactly what I do: she avoids the situation altogether, or she lies down and takes a nap. Like mother, like daughter.

The Ten Commandments, Dog Edition

The Christmas celebrations started this week with a pot luck at our PALS team leader’s home. How generous of her to invite our pooches to join us. Yet the closer the date came, the more my anxiety rose.

During PALS visits, the dogs’ contact with one another is limited. They are to be leashed and under our control at all times. Jelly loves these other dogs, and is tortured she can’t frolic with them on site.

What was I thinking bringing her along to this lunch, then? Without a doubt she’d be overwhelmed with delight. All the new sights and sounds and smells and unleashed friends! Before we left, I read her the riot act. I couldn’t have been more clear. This is what I told her:

  1. Thou shalt not jump on the couch, repeatedly, despite consistent scolding. This is not the retirement home.
  2. Thou shalt not inspect any counters looking for food that someone has forgotten to place out of your reach.
  3. Thou shalt not consume any detritus in the host’s backyard.
  4. Thou shalt not steal any food from unsuspecting people’s plates. Similarly thou shalt not select the target most vulnerable to such a theft.
  5. Thou shalt not become preoccupied with other dogs’ privates. This includes but is not limited to unwanted humping.
  6. That shalt not spend excessive time inspecting thy own privates. Thou shalt save that for home.
  7. Thou shalt not rifle through the host’s laundry, nor transport any soiled undergarments for all to see.
  8. Thou shalt not howl in the house, rendering the group unable to hear one another.
  9. Thou shalt not instigate play with thy friends during the meal. (See Commandment 8.)
  10. Thou shalt not mark the luxurious deep pile carpet in any way.

Despite her briefing, Jelly broke most of these commandments over the course of our visit. Why didn’t I consider that she’d shame me? Why didn’t I leave her at home?

The carpet proved especially appealing. While we chatted in the living room, Jelly scooted her nether regions along the length of it three times. God bless the gracious host who believed Jelly was “marking her territory”, tastefully reframing Jelly’s wiping her butt. Needless to say, I left the lovely get together with my tail between my legs.

Ms. Team Lead and I crossed paths today at another PALS visit. Because occasionally one apology, however sincere, is not enough, again I begged forgiveness for Jelly’s  misbehaviour at the party. I asked Ms. T.L. if she’d like Jelly’s doggie allowance to pay for carpet cleaning. “Oh, not to worry, that was nothing,” she responded graciously.

What did she mean, exactly? After we left, Ms. T.L. discovered a dog had peed voluminously on the basement rug. Thankfully, the carpet’s Scotch Guard made clean up a breeze. She attributed this misdemeanour to another dog in the group. I’d have been more likely to assume it was Jelly’s doing–past ill behaviour is the best predictor of future ill behaviour–but maybe it wasn’t.

Did Jelly keep her unseemly marking to the living room? No one will ever know for sure. Jelly has not had accidents indoors for years. Sure, she can heed those commandments; she simply chooses not to. I can assure you, she didn’t get that from me.

Terrier on bed with sign around neck:

Volunteering is not without its risks

Jelly on floor with several hands petting her during PALS visit

‘Tis the season for extra volunteering shifts. We are on the University of Calgary team that visits campus monthly to help the students manage their stress. This week, the last week of classes before exams, we have three visits. Students wait for up to an hour for 15 minutes of heavy petting.

Jelly loves going to the university because the students will sit on the floor with her and let her lick their faces with abandon. They don’t even seem to mind her shedding all over their black yoga pants.

I also enjoy these visits. They remind me of how glad I am that I’m no longer in university. I must have been a nervous wreck dealing with all that academic pressure. Also, I’m thrilled that so much of Jelly’s hair is left in the university meeting room instead of in our home. Forget about trying to brush your dog; join PALS and the students will do the job for free.

During today’s visit, Jelly was looking especially adorable, and we haven’t even brought out her Christmas costume. Because she was so endearing, as I’m sure you’d agree if you met her, many students wanted to hang out with her. When I encouraged them to fondle her very soft ears, they couldn’t help but be smitten.

Of course Jelly was the subject of many photographs today, some selfies with students and some solo shots. One young woman moaned, “Who can resist those puppy dog eyes?” That seemed like a rhetorical question to me–all canines have puppy dog eyes–but I stopped my inappropriate self from addressing this with her.

Another student, whom we’ll name Emily–Emily is the most common girls’ name in the year this student was likely born–seemed especially enamoured with Jelly. She took a few shots of Jelly lying down with her tongue sticking out. Forget the puppy dog eyes; who can resist a napping dog sticking out her tongue?

While she was visiting, Emily texted her mother, “This is Jelly,” attaching a picture. She then added, “I want her for Christmas.” Emily’s mother, bless her soul, responded with a happy face emoji. Thankfully, she did not promise to wrest our dog from us to give to her daughter for Christmas.

Just to be safe, I intervened as well. I said, “Ahem, Emily, you do understand that I am Jelly’s mother (shhh, she needn’t know I’m not Jelly’s favourite mother), and that I might pose a barrier to your taking her home?” I hope we cleared that misunderstanding up. Emily and I parted on civil terms, or at least I think we did.

I will have to keep a close watch over Christmas, however. Is it possible that, rather than coming through our chimney to deliver gifts, Santa will send an elf down to steal Jelly and take her to Emily’s home? (Do elves commit thievery to fulfil children’s wishes? I don’t know. We didn’t cover this in Hebrew school.) You can bet I’ll grab that elf off the shelf (or the mantle, in this case) if I catch him tampering with my family. Some boundaries are not to be crossed.

My irritability knows no bounds

crying baby in bed

Much appreciation for the three kind and loyal fellow bloggers who liked my last post, which could have benefitted from considerably more editing. Thanks for seeing beyond its many shortcomings, you generous souls. I’ll aspire to do better today.

Because I volunteer in a nursing home, where influenza can spread like wildfire, I scored an early flu vaccine. Shots start today for the general public, in case you weren’t aware, but some people get to jump the queue, including those who who work in facilities housing people vulnerable to infection.

Did I happen to mention they’re predicting a bad influenza season here based on Australia’s rates of illness? I thought you’d want to know.

Last week, following our PALS shift at the retirement home, I lined up with Jelly so I could get my shot. Except there was no line. The immunization clinic was set up for nursing, administrative, and other support staff, and volunteers, but no one was attending. Had no one noticed the mini chocolate bars for the newly immunized?

I sat down beside the immunizing nurse, who seemed overly excited to have a subject, while Jelly gladly endured the other bored nurse petting her. Everyone was content.

[Warning: Keep reading only if you plan to continue to the end of the post.]

The shot hurt from the moment the needle entered my arm. As she put a bandaid over the insertion spot, the nurse mentioned that many people were complaining of pain this year. Thankfully she didn’t disclose this before she inserted the needle since I am highly suggestible.

In the past, I have a sore arm for a few days following the shot, like a heavyweight fighter has punched me, but this time I thought I’d skip that part. I was unscathed until day 3, when I woke up in discomfort, trying to remember what the heavyweight champion looked like. The arm felt better after a few days, as it always does.

J. also scored an early flu shot as a volunteer at the children’s hospital. She received her injection the day my arm was the sorest. After the shot, she denied any pain on injection. She’s such a show off. To add insult to injury, nobody even punched her arm the next day. She felt nothing.

After last year’s shot, I was irritable. Irritability is a potential side effect of the shot, and I’m suggestible, remember? When J. suffered no ill effects, I immediately got cranky, but it had nothing to do with my flu shot; I was cranky because of J.’s suggestion that I am a baby. I may be a baby, but J. still shouldn’t have called me one. A loving partner knows when to fudge the truth.

You will likely react to your flu shot like J. did, i.e., you won’t feel a thing. If you’re irritable, blame it on me for telling you about my adverse reaction. You too can consider my reaction as a function of my sensitive temperament.

Maybe I’m irritable because we’re leaving for Israel tonight and I can’t decide which hoody to take. My life has no end of stresses. It’s a wonder that I can function at all.