Evolving language

Farne arrived last night and spent the day with me, making me food and letting me talk too much. I feel exhausted and energized, even starting to realize how much I want to get better and get back to work and life and being able to DO things...

(As an aside, while I'm happy that I'm able to recover from chemo and deal with this damn cold so well, it is bloody demoralizing to be so utterly wiped out from a day where I was mostly sitting on the couch, talking, with a little ten minute walk down the road in the middle of the day. How much more can I rest?!)

I've got to sleep now, but I wanted to note this nifty article Farne showed me, specifically this very insightful quote, (the ideas about fasting are interesting, but I really don't know that I can handle it, with losing weight so easily):

"Human beings have had no historical need to evolve language applicable to the sensation of being systematically poisoned. Such a vocabulary has never before been necessary, so it does not exist. Chemotherapy patients are therefore obliged to deploy a limited repertoire of familiar but hopelessly inadequate substitutes; words that can only approximate to the experience, but fail to convey anything of its true essence. So we say that we are tired, and feel weak; that we have no energy, or feel somehow unrecognisably unlike ourselves. What we really mean – and this doesn’t capture it either, but it’s the best I can do – is that we feel dead without having actually died. Chemotherapy strips away every last ounce of vitality or volition, until you are left only with the outward appearance of a living person. But you are a hollow husk, empty of all the essential constituents that make a person alive. It is a cruel irony that a drug designed to stop you dying makes you feel as if you have."