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Jon is fine. Okay, as fine as you can be with a three hour operation and general anthestia. But it went well, and hopefully in a few months his knee will be working the way it was meant to work. I’m very tired, very relieved, and all out of poetic metaphores. I know, I’m a writer and words is my business, but today it’s not about words. Today it’s about that tiredness that comes after days of tension finally lift. With the added addition of weeks of recovery ahead of us. So, on one hand the big, scary tension is lifted. On the other hand, the fat lady has not exactly sung. Physical therapy ahead, and working on the pain meds. I made the mistake last night of giving Jon his cell phone, so if he needed me while I had to run over to the other part of the house he could call. It seemed like such a good idea.

One of the things I did while I gathered things up was call, or e-mail, a few people and let them know he was all right. I was on the phone to my Priestess when she got another call. It was Jon. She got back on the phone with me giggling. I don’t get to hear my Priestess giggle often, but apparently my intoxicated darling was pretty funny last night. I’ve talked to two other people he called last night, all highly amused. He also texted a few people, and that, apparently, was even less coherent. I hurried back over and took his phone from him, gently. I then asked, who else did you call or text? He couldn’t remember. Oh, boy. We’ll check his phone log, or whatever today, just in case. I don’t have enough tech skills to do it myself and my resident techie was way out of it last night.

I’m off to try and get something done while he’s still sleeping. I haven’t been on the tread mill or near the gym in three days and I’m getting a little buggy. I finally put my ipod on with ear phones at the hospital yesterday and marked off a route. I got 2000 extra steps, most of them aeroibic. It helped ease the tension for me. I really need to get that heavy bag put back up. Though it wouldn’t have helped me yesterday at the hospital, so never mind. But, frankly, it’s the book that’s calling harder than the gym. Deadline isn’t getting any further away, and the scene that I got seven pages on the day before may have to be trashed. It just isn’t working. Or, it’s me being tired, and stressed. Is the scene really f**ked, or is it just the inside of my head that is tangled? Should I try to do major rewrite while I’m this stressed? Probably not. But until it’s fixed I can’t do more pages. Crap. To quote a musical with a lot of nice sing-along-songs, "It is a puzzlement."