Hildegarde

Here is something to know about me, assuming you want to know anything at all:  there is something seriously wrong with me on any morning when I prefer to listen to Beethoven instead of Bach.

It’s not that I don’t like Beethoven, because I do, in spite of the fact that he seems to have loved the piano while I don’t usually like the sound of it at all.

And it’s not that I don’t listen to Beethoven out of choice.  I’ve even gone to a a great deal of trouble to hear specific symphonies play specific Beethoven programs. 

There is just something about Beethoven in the morning that doesn’t exactly work for me, most of the time.  I’m that way about jazz, too.   I can listen to jazz all night long, but for some reason, jazz in the morning  just makes me crazy.

Well, it’s six thirty in the morning, and what’s playing behind my head is the Eroica, Beethoven’s 3rd. 

Granted, the Eroica is less jarring in the morning than, say, the 5th, which is sort of like being shot out of a cannon and commanded to Emote Strongly.   I don’t Emote all that Strongly in the middle of a good day after a full night’s sleep.

Needless to say, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep or anything like it.  Greg’s second surgery was yesterday,  and things did not go as well as they did the first time.  There seems to be something else wrong with the eye besides the cataracts.  Whatever it is is not supposed to screw this up perpetually, but it made the operation longer and it means that getting full function back in that eye will take a few extra days.

If I sound like I’m blithering here, it’s because I am.  I don’t know enough about this stuff to produce a coherent explanation of it even for myself, never mind in print. 

And I’m assured everything is going to be all right in the long run.  I just don’t do “relax and wait for the long run” all that well. 

We’ve got a follow up appointment in about an hour, and I will, I hope, know more after that. 

But I’m sitting here listening to Beethoven, and that says something.

The good news is that, unless what I hear in an hour is very bad, there is sort of a short term end in sight–I’ve got the week-end, and all I have to do is watch America’s Next Top Model and read light mystery novels.  I’m not even going to do Easter. 

And maybe, when I’m less tired, I’ll be less cranky.