I’ve rambled before about the self-absorbed nature of being a writer. But this past weekend I had the unfortunate privilege of once again isolating myself from the world and feeling like an asshole for trying to write.
Lulabelle was admitted to the hospital for monitoring. She’s been fighting an infection (RSV) for a few days and was generally doing well at home, but on Friday night / Saturday morning it seemed like she was having an unusually hard time of breathing and eating. The doctors found that she was basically okay, but her oxygen levels were a bit too low for a two-month old.
|Obligatory baby pic. Here she is being unimpressed by an albuterol treatment.|
So once again she was fitted with oxygen tubing and strapped to a monitor that would beep at us petulantly, insisting that there was a crisis even as the nurses, Stephanie, and I could all see that Lula was breathing more or less comfortably.
The upshot was that we got to look forward to a weekend waiting in the hospital. From 9 AM on Saturday morning until 5 PM Sunday evening.
Naturally, I wanted to use this time to write.
After all, what else was I going to do? Lulabelle was under observation and my role as a caretaker, while not diminished, was supplemented by a full staff of professionals. There’s nothing I can do to make the RSV go away – it just takes time to pass. So it’s either sit around and waste time lamenting, or try to sneak in a few pages here and there.
Except… I felt like an asshole. That always happens in situations like this.
I’m of two minds about it. On the one hand, there’s logically no reason why I shouldn’t try to be productive and make something positive out of an otherwise frustrating situation. On the other hand, it feels like I’m cutting out the world and being cruel.
I’ll leave it to the rest of the world to judge whether or not it would be in poor taste to try to write while in the recovery room. The bottom line is that a) I didn’t actually get any work done, and b) Because I didn’t try, I now have no writing done. I suspect this is another case of me getting in my own way.
Stupid guilt. Why do I always feel like I’m being a terrible person?
Anyway. How was your weekend? Pretty cold, huh? Hope you were keeping warm. No, I didn’t catch the game. How was it? That bad, huh? Lame. Well, there’s always next time. Keep on keeping on, you groovy rock star, you.