On Getting Out of Jail

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So, I alluded to a bad thing that might happen, and it did.

I spent about two days panicking and then, all of a sudden, I realized it actually didn’t matter at all. I’ve made my choices based on what’s best for my health and well-being, and it doesn’t matter what happens, those choices are solid. Now, less than a week later, I am hardly thinking about it at all, which is a place I once thought I’d never get. I’m okay, I have a plan, I’ve got this.

Which is good, because as much as this other situation might want to hijack my life, I’ve got some pretty big fish to fry of my own. Mainly, my hands. At least twice a month I am in enough pain to lose my composure and seriously contemplate more than just my daily almost-a-bottle-of-wine pain management routine. The same problems remain, though:

My PCP is a nurse practicioner in WAY over his head, and we had several medication fumbles last year such that we both know we need someone with more expertise.

I live where Medicine Comes To Die.

I have, literally, no options in my place of residence.

The Shrink is retiring in September.

Once again, I’ve set up the summer as a time to fix problems so that I can go back to work. Instead, what it needs to be is that I need to try to solve some problems, not for work, but for me and my life. The answers are no more forthcoming, though.

The bottom line being, my hands are my life, and they have begun to hurt all the time, and that is just way more threatening and deserving of my attention than just about anything else.

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