Origins.

I wonder about the origins of our biases and convictions in the light of an observation made by Bluefish in the last few hours.

Since her condition has deteriorated, it is a fact that I have found communication with Bluefish more difficult. Why is this?

I contend that the reason is because, from somewhere, I have convinced myself that it is a source of irritation to the unwell to be weighed down with trivialities. In other words: conduct your business quickly, decisively, and then leave her body to mend. This mindset has become a source of conflict between Bluefish and I because, she laments, she needs my presence now more than ever.

So where did it come from, then, the notion that it is improper to laugh with or eat up the day of those who are sick? (I should clarify that Bluefish is not on the 'endangered' list.) As I write, I realise precisely why she might appreciate now more than at other times an opportunity to be leavened from pain; to be distracted by anything at all. Yet still, my stubborn viewpoint persists.

I remember a book called 'Carrie's War,' which I recall had the stink of misery and sickness and overwhelmed, seething patients seemingly drifting from every page - the doomed Mrs. Gotobed.

I remember my grandfather announcing: they gave me some good news today! I've got two weeks to live!

I know how I behave when I have anything from a headache to something which requires a hospital visit - unbearably, illogically angry with anything which dares to intersect my path. Just as the drunk feels free to punch you in the face because he is no longer in control, I find myself biting back rage and frustration. It is the only time that such thick, dark emotions come to dominate me.

There is, I realise, an element of fear (on my part) here too. I am scared that I am no longer the one doing the steering, and that Bluefish is not permitted to steer herself either. Instead, we are at the mercy of something abstract, something which has overloaded her and stolen the thunder of both of us.

This is the frightening thing about (even non life-threatening) illnesses. They arrive unannounced and cleave that which was unbreakable straight through the middle. It's no longer just you and I, love.

A confession, too. I am scared of dying, and any illness demands that we, for a moment, look our own mortality squarely in the eyes. The thing about existence, so the joke goes, is that nobody ever got out alive, and I contemplate this with a shiver.