All Quiet on the Western Front

In chapter 7 of this novel, it is stated:

Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line . . . so we turn into wags and loafers when we are resting. . . . We want to live at any price; so we cannot burden ourselves with feelings which, though they may be ornamental enough in peacetime, would be out of place here. Kemmerich is dead, Haie Westhus is dying . . . Martens has no legs anymore, Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead, Hammerling is dead . . . it is a damnable business, but what has it to do with us now—we live

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I have been all quiet on the blog front because I didn't want to admit what I have been feeling to spare my readers the gory details of my life. In the last week, I have been battling my emotional baggage. How do I mix the medical life with my personal life? How do I work around all of the medical jargon in order have any sort of personal life? If I ignore the personal stuff, my own sanity suffers. If I ignore the medical stuff, my own body suffers. How do I combine the two in order to maintain my health and maintain my sanity?

I just don't know how to do that yet.