The Lupus soldier braves the murk, the mug of humid hot. Condensing, trickling, … hat-less. Stupid. Good move, loser. The sun beats against my back. I sigh as I slump down into the driver’s seat of my car. Today’s desert is a freaking parking lot, for God’s sake.
I had to repeat my blood tests today. Dr. H. thinks my white blood cells are being killed off by my lack of Evil P, not an excess of Big M. Sigh. I’m not sure how less prednisone would decrease my whities, considering it’s immunosuppressing powers are at a minimum with me being on 2.5 mg. every second day. The rheumatology clinic blood lab was closed today because of under-staffing, so I crossed the threshold into the main hospital:
My mood changes as soon as my sandals hit the floor. Everything grates on me: A woman chatting in her hospital gown, hospital lanyards bouncing against chests, patterned scrubs, hanging signs. God, I hate hospital gowns. I enter the blood lab and I take a number like I’m waiting for lunch meat at the deli counter. An unfamiliar feeling of dread wafts over me. I’m fidgety, the lab tech asks me if I’m okay. Of course, I’m okay! I’ve done this a million times, lady, I’m freaking OKAY.
Okay, so I’m not totally okay. There has been a “flashback flood” in the last few days with my “anniversary” coming up. And I’m nervous because I’m going to be around lots of people (and their germs) for the double wedding this week with my whities being so low, the forecast says it’s going to be killer hot, and the schedule is jam-packed. The timing is stupid… and so am I, for being up this late.