A dull rage is in my heart. From cell to cell of my brain crept the one thought, the mad indignant toward my husband as well as the fate. How could he be so afraid, so like a baby in disease? Why should I, after fighting every minute to make so many things done, work, learning, house chores, taking care of son, still need to take so much painful troubles to comfort him? Indignant, the most difficult to ease of all man’s emotions, quicken into force infecting in each trembling nerve and fiber.

I know its not fair. I know he is just sensitive to pain. And I know as a social guy, it’s terrible to stay in bed all day without any company. I know, I know. I’m trying, so damn hard, to step into his shoes.

No matter how difficult to control my rising anger, I've tried many times recently, and would try it again now. I summoned up all of my patience and tried to inject more confidence and cheerfulness into my tone, then I answered his phone. For a thousand times, I told him: “It’s all right to feel discomforts during the recovery progress. It’s the Must when you are re-building up your muscles.”

Mood swings, insomnia, uncontrollable temper, the signs of my depression can’t be more obvious. It needs to be handled immediately but I just don’t have the time, or the energy. I just need help that I couldn’t get right now.

Tonight, I’ll take him to the hospital for another MRI test. What the hell is that for? I mean, it’s ridiculous to think a MRI test is wrong simply because the result is too good. But if it can bring him any confidence, I would do it. whatever, damn.