It's peculiar, what comes to mind when you least expect it. That last post, for instance. I wish I hadn't posted it now. It arose out of self-pity: and so I changed its direction. That's why it is so contrived.
If we had had children, there would be something of Ann remaining. Something tangible, I mean. Something for me. If we had had children, there would be something of Ann continuing. Something of me. Something for me. If we had had children, there would be a reason not to fall apart. Or do I mean an excuse not to fall apart? I feel guilty if I laugh. I feel guilty when I eat. I feel guilty that I feel a little better for writing this Blog.
And now it's fucking all about me again.
I might have said that the fertility treatment involved pumping Ann full of oestrogen.
The cancer was oestrogen-fed, they said.