March 6, 2009

Everything since Tuesday afternoon obliterated by phlebitis. It has been an especially bad attack–not the worst–with nuances I don’t remember from other times. One such nuance is projectile vomiting, which I had not experienced before, and which I had thought a figure of speech. Convulsion-like chills, then hours of delirium and pain. One thing I thought would never happen to me was to miss a performance, but I missed Wednesday’s Titus, and I don’t see how, at this point, I could endure tonight’s. It was a strange thing. There was actually no choice. I was powerless. I could not be there. David Mycoff did the part on book, and word was it was fine. Walked to the mailbox yesterday. Driving to the doctor’s office today. I’m bored, but too achy and weak to do anything that’s not boring. When it becomes such a monumental task is when I realize how much time I spend cleaning up after cats. Jocasta, actually, who spews forth at both ends habitually, but does not have the wit to die, at her advanced cat-age. Have cancelled the New York trip. Even if I am well by Monday, it is not going to do me good to whirl around in the subways for hours on end. I lose hundreds of dollars in theater tickets. Trying to get MA to come get them (he too is going to New York) but I don’t think he believes I’m serious when I say they’re free. I even know what caused this: a torn toenail which I neglected, trusting in my habitual vitality. Our hubris is frequently over-penalized.