Rewriting the Dictionary

I like fall. Sure, it’s windy and I can’t breathe in ridiculously soft breezes, and cold temperatures make things stiff and somewhat achy (mostly stiff) for a lot longer than seems possible, but I can think. And if I can think, I can hone that expectation target beyond the next moment, and see that I can push through pain and stiffness (and turn my face away from the wind.) I tend to have a problem (like many people) keeping myself from then pushing that expectation window far too enthusiastically open far too fast. Then those setbacks really suck. I am getting better with that, and not letting that keep me from trying again. I’m not sure how many people around me (including doctors) are doing with it… and that’s damned irritating.

But at this point, we play the parts I know well by my rules. I know this part.

You know the “It gets better” campaign? I’m pretty sure, LGBT kids (both old and young) that it does. I mean, hell, if you’re a teenager, trust me, I don’t care if you’re attracted to steam powered mops, it gets better. It sucks being a teenager. A lot of this I think just comes from knowing your part and knowing the part other people play in the world.

Okay, in my case, physically, it ain’t getting better. It just… isn’t. It isn’t. We might not know jack more than we do. But I feel like at least everyone on board is trying as well as they can, and nothing has been overlooked (and my sweet GP, god love her, keeps looking at things that… well, we had a talk yesterday about a test that repeatedly comes back abnormal, and that she repeatedly sends me to the specialist for, who repeatedly says that yes, while it shouldn’t, it probably isn’t really worth looking at that closely every year. If the test comes back looking abnormal again, but not more abnormal, we’re skipping him this year. I don’t want to waste everyone’s time. Especially mine.)

There’s a lot to be said for feeling like my back is covered. I didn’t previously.

I got a call from the kind folks at Dana Farber (a big piece of the “my back is covered” security blanket) who are scheduling me with a neuromuscular person. I… have to get my records to them — specifically, the neuromuscular workup I had before. This is causing me a bit of difficulty. I think they just want those test results, but let’s just say getting the records faxed from Beth Israel Deaconess is a little like taking fire away from the gods. Yes, they are my records, but I can’t handhold the records people through the whole “print and fax” process. HIPPAA and all that shizz, they won’t let me back into the records department.

It gets better, you just have to redefine better to mean something within reason. I mean, it sucks. It sucks on a daily basis. And I hate having to settle, and I think that’s okay. But I have to settle or it’ll only suck worse.

Pffft. Growing up is dumb. But as I mentioned earlier, being a kid completely blows chunks.

So my sweet GP’s new office is by the old hospital (where I was born, incidentally, weird, huh?). At the foot of the hill the hospital is on, there is a pond and a cemetery (the old hospital was closed. I don’t know if the cemetery holds clues into the reasoning there).

The pond used to be really nasty. There wasn’t much of a walkway around it. There was always tons of mud, and trash, and broken bottles. And ducks. Stupid memory alert: When I was four, I had these awesome little China doll Mary Jane type shoes. My mom accompanied… someone to the hospital. My aunt? My nana? Anyway, while said person was at their appointment, we went to the nasty ass pond to toss bread to the ducks (dudes, it was the 70s, nobody knew that this was actually a horrible thing to do to the ducks).

Me, being a stupid little git, toddled out on to what looked like dirt to toss the ducks some nasty old hot dog buns. The ducks could walk on the dirt, but I couldn’t. I sunk in up to my mid-calf level, totally ruining the awesome China doll shoes. I also cut my inner right calf on something in the lovely mud. By the cemetery. At the foot of the hill that hospital sat on. Anyway. It bled. It bled like a sonofabitch. I still have the scar. (Physically, but hell, I guess emotionally, too. Mwahaha)

But with the closing of the hospital they cleaned up the pond (not sure if these things are related either). I guess there must be fish there… Because this guy was there just looking like a storm cloud yesterday.
I mean, a lovely mood he was in….

Duck! I said. DUUUUCK!

Wanna fight about it?

Know what happens when you feed ducks bread? Thirty years later, their progeny ends up like this:

Mallard Airs it Publicly

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