At some point, I will have time to write. At some point, I will have energy to write. At this point, I don’t. I am not exhausted in any way familiar to me; this is something new. There’s a toll, some kind of internal cost, to too many scenes of difficulty playing out in front of you. I limit myself to 30 minutes a day of broadcast news, and still, still it feels like too much. I manage my expectations for everyday and still, still I feel drained from the effort. I am overworked and restless, suspended in time and keeping a family moving forward. I am leading the fight against the internal enemy that Mark faces, while Mark battles alone. I am watching the fight against the invisible enemy from a screen, while guarding the five of us in our encampment. Sometimes I feel like I lost a year to Mark’s cancer. Like I’m losing a season to pandemic. I try to remind myself that the year wasn’t lost; it was lived. The season is being lived. I lay me down to sleep at night, thankful for the weight of blankets holding me down, and just breathe.