Tired

I'm going to make this short because as the title of this entry claims, I'm tired.

Mom and Dad were down today, and while I was happy that they were here (along with the small Napoleonic powermonger known as Poo) it kind of ended on a bad note. Mom apparently has been talking to my rheumatologist up north lately, and told him that my hand pain is no better; that, in fact, things are starting to go bad in not only the already troubled right knee, but the left one is starting to go, too.

This is not a good thing. The medication should be alleviating the swelling and pain at least a bit by now. It's not. Mom is clearly freaking out and now is trying to get me an appointment a month earlier than the one I scheduled in late December. If the medication doesn't work by Thanksgiving I'm going to have to start on something else to try and stop this thing.

I feel, at this moment, like I am one small fly on the front of a speeding bullet train to hell. Whether I can flip myself off the front of it and wind up in the slipstream is beyond me.

Mom's worrying has got me doing it, too, and the last thing I need is more worry that the medication I have been faithfully taking for almost two months isn't doing a bloody thing. I already had fears; she just confirmed them.

I just need a good night's rest and I can start all over again wondering if everything I'm doing is worth kumquats.

On a far happier note, I finished The Isolde Diaries today and immediately discovered 89 million mistakes when I printed off a copy. This always happens. I'll edit, reprint, and find 6 more...

Cheers,
Bec