My life seems to be about endings right now. Some are good, some are bad, and some just are. I’m not sure if that’s contributing to the way I feel, but right now, I’m right back where I started over a year ago. I’ve had the slow onset of emotional instability, followed by crushing fatigue and depression. The physical pain is getting bad again, I want to be dead, my brain is only working at its slowest possible pace… it’s all just going down hill.
Like I said, there are some good endings. I finished Alexis’s sweater for when I see her at Christmas. Julie L helped me find the cutest buttons that I believe make the whole project.
Now I’m working on booties to add to the baby hat and mittens set I made for Vickie. I’m also working on a sweater for Blaine and a blanket for another friend who is expecting a baby in the summer.
My back yard has turned into a beautiful fall scene. I do adore summer, though, and it just signals the end of my favorite season.
There is one ending, however, that is currently devastating me. I’m not sure if it’s contributing to my current state of decline, but I wouldn’t doubt it. On Monday, I have my last appointment with Dr B. Normally, this wouldn’t be such a big deal. I’ve had a lot of doctors come and go, and I’ve had a lot of friends move (and I’ve done so myself). But this time, it’s so very different.
When I got sick nearly a year and a half ago, Dr B was there to watch my decline and try to help me through it. Through the process he became like family. He didn’t try to treat me like a science experiment like the doctors I am seeing now are doing. Unlike my other doctors, he worries about how side effects and risks of diagnostic procedures are going to impact my life. It genuinely upset him when he thought I might suicide. He was never content to just tell me that he had no idea what was going on and that I had to live with it. He kept trying. That persistence on his part helped me stay focused on my goal of getting better, helped me to believe that maybe I could get through this. And as insignificant as this might seem, he was simply there to hold my hand through the whole thing. It might seem odd, but I am not at all afraid of this illness, or the possibility it could kill me, or anything like that – I’m simply afraid of going through it alone. Afraid of going through it with doctors who are cold and uncaring, putting me through pointless procedure after pointless procedure, telling me maybe I have a psychiatric disease or that I need to exercise more despite that fact that it makes me worse (I do think that part of my current decline is the exercise program the cardiologist started me on). I’m afraid of never getting better and vanishing into obscurity. I’m afraid no one will notice my absence. I’m afraid no one notices now.
Dr B will still be with me, sort of. We’re going to keep in touch, on more of a peer-to-peer level. It’s fantastic, and he couldn’t have handled it any better, but the fact remains that even with all the technology we have, it won’t be the same. I talk to my friends on Facebook all the time, but it isn’t a substitute for seeing them in person. I feel pretty darned isolated in my current condition. I don’t know what it is about that person to person interaction, but it matters. Heck, I adore my brother and his family, but between visits, it seems as if they don’t exist. I don’t live near family, and save for my brother, I don’t seem anyone all that often. We just aren’t a connected bunch. That’s why losing Dr B is so devastating – I feel like another family member is just… leaving.
I’ll get through it, or I won’t. There is no point in worrying how it will turn out. It’s only the here and now that matters, and it sucks. <groan>