If I had a paint brush and an easel, I would paint this day grey. The weather is overcast and damp. The neighbors walking through the court look gloomy, eyes downcast to the cracked pavement. Everyone I see is dressed in black, brown, blue. No one is talking or laughing or sharing.

I'm stuck in the bedroom with a lukewarm cup of decaf; the TV plays in the background, but I am numb to the programs or the sound. I've tried to read, but my concentration and comprehension falls prey to my short term memory. I toss the book to the floor with my good hand after attempting to grasp the same words over and over again without success.

My husband is frantically :out_of_here: running through the house upstairs and down. I was worried about cleaning house a couple of days ago. Now he has suddenly realized that my sister will visit day after tomorrow. You won't believe it - of all the work that needs to be done, he has chosen to remove the carpet from my office down the hall. We had just started redecorating my home office about a week before the stroke. He had given me a beautiful rustic oak secretary for our 27th wedding anniversary August 12, 2005. The desk and chair are still wrapped in packing material, sitting in the corner of the bedroom. Now he has suddenly decided that the room has to be completed.

But the walls have not even been painted. Two gallons of paint have been sitting at the bottom of the stairs. The floor is covered with books, boxes, and all sorts of office equipment. The floorcovering will have to be installed. He's losing patience and I am getting rattled, because I can't help with any of it.

Should I just close my eyes, pull the covers over my head, and try to sleep until things get a bit more sane around here? Oh, wait, I should finish drinking my decaf before it gets ice cold.

Debbie