While Connie's Hubby is home this evening and relatively sound, Connie herself has been admitted to the hospital with some sort of bacterial infection; congestive heart failure has not been ruled out. As this has been a day of firsts (first wheelchair ride, first IV, first oxygen line, first shot of Demerol), I thought I'd log on for the first time in a while and let all of you know. If I learn anything else, you'll hear it soon afterwards.

Update: the diagnosis as of this morning is bacterial pneumonia combined with congestive heart failure. Connie is comfortable, bored out of her mind (no cable, no computer) and has no idea when she's going to be released: while her insulin levels have stabilized, her blood pressure is still very high and her potassium levels very low, and the drugs have only begun to deal with the infection.

If you want to call: 1.801.357.7850 (I have that number memorized. I wish I didn't), room 775. Don't be surprised if you're shunted to the nurse's station and they tell you to ask me or Connie's Hubby: the contact and visiting hours on that floor are restricted. (If you have Connie's home number, please don't ring there: her Hubby is still on bedrest.)

If you want to send something, write me off-line for Connie's home address.

She sends her thanks for the kind wishes.

I finally downloaded pictures from my camera tonight. Apparently, Nilly's trip to Boston was still there. So, I'm finally sharing my few pictures: Nilly in Boston.

Hi, there!

Still in hospital. Wondering if doctors really talk to each otehr or if they throw darts at bulletin boards. The doctor this morning said nothing about my heart or my lungs, except to say "Oh, that's nothing" (my lungs disagree). His diagnosis: old fashioned blood poisoning (Hubby, reading over my shoulder, insists on the word scepticemia). I let some cuts get infected and ignored them, and now I'm wearing baggy clothes and have an IV in my writing hand. I may be in here until Tuesday, which means I have been very stupid about taking care of myself in being worred about Hubby.

Hey. I'm in Greece. No internet access as of yet - I'm borrowing someone's computer. -ma to all as needs it, and a small request for "Get a house for Raquel"-ma for me.

I haven’t been around much lately because I’ve had a lot of personal stuff going on. I was diagnosed with diabetes a couple months ago and had to make some immediate significant lifestyle changes. (The diabetes is a result of my wonderfully inactive lifestyle and the fact that I’m significantly overweight.) Fortunately, I’ve been accepted into year long weight management research study at the local heart hospital. It deals with the basics – diet and exercise. But it was designed for significantly overweight people with joint pain. So I’ve spent a month doing physical therapy, and today I officially started the program. I am thoroughly committed and excited beyond words.

Could I get debatema for my brother as well as Edwards? He's got a big one tonight.

I'll be dark for the next few days as I attend Bouchercon. See you Monday!

Have been darkest black recently to computer being banjaxed. I am trying to catch up, but it's entirely possible that my computer will once again decide that working is not something it's willing to do.

I am leaving tomorrow morning for a long weekend in New Hampshire, far from school and papers and parents and, yes, the Internet.

It has been a very hard couple of weeks for a lot of Buffistas. Before I go, I wanted to post this poem for everyone who would really like nothing more than for their life to be a little more ordinary. Hope from me to you that one like this comes along for you all soon.

Poem: "Ordinary Life," by Barbara Crooker, from Ordinary Life (By Line Press)

This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.