“Check.”

It’s funny — and a bit alarming, when one first learns to play chess — how often one move from one’s opponent can put everything in jeopardy. A quick defensive move, castling, leaping in with one’s knight or bishop — and sometimes the danger is averted. Sometimes. But in the field of identical black-and-white squares, it’s hard to see where the danger is coming from, and one mistaken move can result in a checkmate – a disaster from which there is no recovery.

At the moment, that’s a bit of what our lives feel like. We haven’t posted on this much, because really, ailments are simply not that interesting, and whining isn’t good reading. However, we thought we’d provide a little update for the concerned.

A bit of background: through the extended winter of this year, D. has been ill off and on, first with a pneumonia, then with a terrible reaction to the antibiotic he was taking, and later, he had a build-up reaction to a different drug — and a little over a month ago, he decided to stop taking anything, and go with herbs (milk thistle is an amazing thing, and is used by doctors in Germany to heal the livers of those who have mistakenly eaten poisonous mushrooms). Unfortunately, some damage was done; it appears that he has had some liver toxicity from the drugs and after a lot of throwing up, we thought he’d be better. Not yet. Many blood tests and trips to the doctor later, we’re still exploring his baffling list of symptoms (which include no appetite, sudden low blood pressure and fainting, and the ability to fall into a horribly deep sleep for two-three days straight) and have narrowed his problems down to various disorders, including Hepatitis A (the aforementioned inflamed liver), Epstein-Barr’s disease, or mononucleosis.

Right now, our American audience is wondering why we don’t know yet for sure. Well, that’s because labwork can take up to two weeks here. The cuts that have been made for the good (debatable good, some say) of the financial big picture here have been to the NHS, and so lab tech jobs have been cut. A lab procedure that might take thirty-five minutes is delayed because there aren’t enough hands on deck at present to deal with it. (This was explained to T. by someone who works for the system.) We are having to have patience, D. is working when he can, and we’re balanced on the keen edge of faith and frustration, learning to change our expectations of what we can do and where we can go, setting aside all but the most crucial appointments (we’re SO grateful D. was able to turn in his dissertation draft, and he’s writing out his oral presentation for the 26th, in case someone else has to read it for him). We are learning to breathe through the panic, to celebrate the moments of normalcy, to restructure expectations, and to cope. (For all our friends to whom we owe notes or packages [Jac, G, & C, your little packet of odd bobs is still sitting by the door, and Tony, the fedora-wearing paper doll is still in process], we apologize. We haven’t forgotten you!)

Since the weather has decided to reprise November’s greatest hits (hail, wind, rain and sleet), we don’t feel like we’re missing too much not being outside. D. is under orders not to exert himself, so walks are limited to right out front in the garden, and across the street to the herbalist. T. bakes and cooks to temp D.’s disinterested appetite, and we’ve come up with some really tasty oat bar cookies — which sadly have no recipe at present, but we’re going to try making them again this weekend, and we’ll write down what we do!

T. attended a concert with a friend on Sunday and was amused to hear a group from the Bay Area! The Kronos Quartet plays experimental classical, Mexican folk, and South Asian music, and it was an unique experience to hear them. (A few of their songs sounded like the violin equivalent of crickets, tree frogs, and cicadas with drums, rattles, the odd mandolin riff and snatches of digitally sampled voices. Really avant garde stuff.) One of the musicians was an old faculty member from Mills College in Oakland (T’s alma mater), proving the musical world is indeed very, very small.

Speaking of music, Sunday is the City of Glasgow Chorus’ final concert of the official season. D. will be unable to stand throughout the full two hours, but has his ticket and will be sitting in the audience with friends, front and center. How we wish some of you could be there, as we sing in the gorgeous City Halls. Belshazzar’s Feast is the Biblical story from whence we get the phrase “seeing the writing on the wall.” It’s a dramatic and overwrought piece of music wherein the choir gets to shout the word “Slain!” and lament with all the skill of a Greek chorus, whisper, and sing in eight parts. It’s fast, dissonant, challenging, and strangely gorgeous. Really do you could be in the audience.

Meanwhile, we carry on, as the icy wet Spring gives way to warmer weather. We’re hopeful that a solution to our current difficulties is only a week or two away. We’ve met some kind and conscientious folk who are working with us, and we’re grateful for understanding professors and flexible bosses.

It is a game of strategy, this life, and we’re playing as wisely as we can. We’re planning for our next move. D. has gotten some job nibbles from British Columbia, and so we’re looking that direction — but that’s all so far in the future. Right now, our focus is keenly pared down to essentials — getting through a day with no major mishaps. Do keep us in your thoughts as we figure out what’s going on, and we hope that things are going well with you.