I’ve never been one for keeping diaries. Observing how silly princesses and other notables confide their secrets to their diaries, only to have them betrayed to the world has always put me off keeping one. (a diary, that is, not a princess!) And then there are the twitty (or is it ‘twitter’) entries that expose to the world, “I’m having a shower”, or “I’m ironing my laptop”, or “I’m chewing gum”.
I must now confess that since late last year I have kept a daily diary in which I record my medical situation. I’ve been keeping track of procedures, my physical reactions to them and how I’ve coped mentally and spiritually from day to day. It records the highs and the lows.
And I must also confess that during this past week I’ve realised the value of what I’ve been doing. No one else will be remotely interested in ever reading it when I’m gone. But this past week was tough. One of the worst I’ve had for a long time. One evening I scanned back through the diary and discovered that even this past week, that I thought was depressingly rough, has been better than many I endured earlier in the year.
It made me feel positively better!
Dear Diary, today I fantasized that I was well …