I tried everything—replugging all her veins, clicking and pressing different key points. Nothing. I let her rest for the night, thinking she'd rouse in the morning. Didn't work. I tried other measures, prayed, asked for calm—for the grace to accept what I could not change. At the beginning of day two, I called a doctor. He explained a delay and I agreed to his exorbitant feel if only he'd come.
I waited. What would be, would be. I couldn't afford anything major. That's when I made the decision I could live without Ciboxer. I could indeed live without writing. Without my online friends. God had given me a wonderful garden to delight my senses. I should use it, love my husband and appreciate our final years together. With time at my disposal, I read some old lectures, boned up on writing, and settled down to read a novel. The time passed in pleasant leisure with no demands to drag me away from real life. I began to enjoy myself.
The next day, the pc doctor rang to say he'd be late. Nearly an hour. I held my patience inside. After his examination and a bit of fiddling, the doctor breather new life into Ciboxer's veins. She'd suffered a blockage. There she was—as good as new, face blinking in the sudden light.
The doctor cleared out old potential blockages and spent the hour bringing her to full working capacity. He congratulated me on a fast and bright screen—um, monitor. Delight sped my feet into the other room where I collected the agreed sum. And handed over the doctor's fee.
We're working in harmony again, Ciboxer and I. Tomorrow, I'll be back with more views on news.