Friday, January 13, 11:00 PM. Amy.

It’s been freezing and icy for the last couple of days. Trevor slipped on the driveway going out this morning and hurt himself. He was okay. It’s not so bad when you’re little. If Brewer or I fell like that it could mean real trouble. I got Garrett to salt all the pavement.

I seeded some vegetables indoors this week: onions, tomatoes, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts. Who knows whether they’ll end up growing, but I might as well try. Brewer keeps waving the Almanac in the air. “The book says they’ll grow,” he’ll exclaim, “so they will!” I can’t decide whether he’s teasing me or delirious or just gullible.

He felt a little better today. Not much pain. He’s been resting well the last few days, staying in more, taking it easier.

I want to be angry with him for not telling me about the illness sooner. I am angry. And yet…I admit I don’t know what difference it would have made. I’m not a doctor. I would have no remedy. I would have worried.

I could’ve supported him better at least. Taken on some of his tasks, taken off some of the load. I could have listened, provided a place for him to unload his worries and fears.

At least I can be that now.

He was trying to protect me. He was hoping it would go away. Always the optimist, always the damned optimist. When will he learn he can’t hide from reality forever?

Maybe all he needs his rest. Maybe with enough rest the symptoms will subside. That I can do if nothing else: I can keep him on his back in bed.