I was exhausted last night. Rightly so, I imagine.
As I lay in bed, I could feel the powerful impact of two different cytotoxic agents on all the various bits of me. Havoc was being wreaked, like some marauder in the garden.
I went with this garden imagery, the cancer in my lungs a persistent and deeply rooted weed. And I pictured it being torn asunder, plucked from the substrate of my flesh, shaken violently, bent, torn, limp, lifeless. Every last cell of it.
When I awakened this morning the sound in my lungs had changed in timbre. The crackle of leather had been replaced with something akin to a broken tea cup. Very fine bone china, rattling around.
Hmmm, I thought. This is an improvement. What was hidebound now feels looser, dryer, easier to dislodge.