It's Never Lupus
It is two a.m.
This is not a thing that is pleasing. Last night, despite it being an interferon night, and me being loaded with tylenol, I tossed and turned for most of the night. At least I could sleep in during the day, before heading to the hospital for a follow-up with me doc and some lovely, lovely photophoresis. And now, here I am again, wiped the hell out and unable to get some of that sweet, sweet unconsciousness.
Three months down! Three more to go before we reassess wether or not to continue doing stuff to my blood. As it turns out, it takes about six months to begin seeing judgeable results from this sort of thing. I may or may not shave my wrists before the next treatment to make the tape-removal process less annoying. And I am definitely going to start bringing my NES with me. Duck Hunt only takes one hand.
* * *
I need a haircut.
As I am now walking, albeit rather more of a shamble than any proper left-foot-right-foot action, I must fulfill my promise to myself: That I would get a haircut when I could walk again. My parents will be thrilled. They've been after me to get a trim for months. If I'm honest, spite is one of the reasons why I kept the promise instead of caving into peer pressure and the desire to look less like a hobo.
The walking is being accomplished with the help of a classy little rosewood cane. I feel like Dr. House. I want an old prescription bottle that I can re-label as vicodin, fill with candy, and pop whenever I feel like it, just for effect.
This is not a thing that is pleasing. Last night, despite it being an interferon night, and me being loaded with tylenol, I tossed and turned for most of the night. At least I could sleep in during the day, before heading to the hospital for a follow-up with me doc and some lovely, lovely photophoresis. And now, here I am again, wiped the hell out and unable to get some of that sweet, sweet unconsciousness.
Three months down! Three more to go before we reassess wether or not to continue doing stuff to my blood. As it turns out, it takes about six months to begin seeing judgeable results from this sort of thing. I may or may not shave my wrists before the next treatment to make the tape-removal process less annoying. And I am definitely going to start bringing my NES with me. Duck Hunt only takes one hand.
* * *
I need a haircut.
As I am now walking, albeit rather more of a shamble than any proper left-foot-right-foot action, I must fulfill my promise to myself: That I would get a haircut when I could walk again. My parents will be thrilled. They've been after me to get a trim for months. If I'm honest, spite is one of the reasons why I kept the promise instead of caving into peer pressure and the desire to look less like a hobo.
The walking is being accomplished with the help of a classy little rosewood cane. I feel like Dr. House. I want an old prescription bottle that I can re-label as vicodin, fill with candy, and pop whenever I feel like it, just for effect.
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