dialysis shmyalysis

Three months later, I'm still on crutches. My foot is being troublesome, but is more or less on the mend. I may have complicated things entirely by getting started on my own bipedal mobility a wee bit too early. New strategies are being attempted by my home care team in the form of fancier and fancier contact dressings. I'm also on my second set of gibble sticks. Apparently, aluminium crutches are not designed for continuous daily use, dancing at weddings, or long windy walks.

In other news, today's meeting with my dermatologist went roughly according to The Pattern. That being that first, I meet his interns. There are always two, and they are usually stunning, which was at first daunting when they were pumping me for information. I do so love intelligent women; I can't date stupid. After meeting the interns, I dazzle them with my verbose and detailed answers to their questions, while not telling them exactly what my diagnosis is, because I am being used as a pop quiz. Then Dr. H comes in, screws with the interns' heads a little, has me run through all my latest developments and then he updates my prescriptions and throws me a medical curveball.

Today's curveball: photophoresis. I am going to get hooked up to a machine that will, over the course of three hours, pump out all of my blood, zap it with UVA, and pump it back in. This is not a definite thing, but it is a highly likely outcome, assuming that they can fit me in to the schedule.

It does seem like life is conspiring to keep me half machine. When I get my robot pelvis, you're all in trouble.