Salamander
Fire Walking

OK, so the Prius cost me $600. Who knew that if you left the gas cap loose (something I've never done before, and didn't do this time on purpose) that it would cost $120 just to reset the stupid computer? With the 60,000 mile work and inspection/emissions, there went that wad of cash. Additionally, I've just found out that my PUVA treatments are going to cost me $25 each, three times a week for at least the next two or three months, maybe longer. My monthly meds cost almost $150 in the last four weeks. My sizable Fed rebate went almost entirely to catch up my share of the mortgage payments, with April's looming nigh.

I continue to require small amounts of insulin on a daily basis. Additionally, I'm still taking essentially the same quantity of meds that I was released from the hospital on a month ago. I have some valid reasons for believing my kidneys are starting to show damage from the medications (I get that checked out Tuesday). I get blood tests on a weekly basis to assess the status of my liver, and I have doctor's visits booked through the rest of the year into next January. I still have the bruise from last week's blood test in the crook of my left arm, with a nice bruise from yesterday's rising in the crook of my right arm. The insulin needles leave bruises as often as not, making me look like a refuge from an S&M party. All that's lacking is the "Kick Me" sign on my ass. I'm partially convinced the Universe has hung one there, and I just haven't found it yet.

Mortality is a concept that begins to take flesh in my mind. There's a difference between knowing that everybody dies eventually, and knowing you'll die eventually. I can't say I'm bothered by it, but I am bothered by the fact that I have accomplished nothing of great import in my life and now realize I am likely never to do so. Somehow that surety I had as a kid that I was going to do something great when I grew up has vanished, leaving a bit of void in my soul. I believe in myself far less these days.

I'm tired of coping. I'm tired of putting the brave face on, and joking with casual companions that there's nothing really wrong with me. It's a well-polished shtick I have. "I just do it for the attention. If you ignore me, then it'll get better, and my body will have to come up with something else." Keep it easy. Keep it friendly. Never look like you're taking it seriously. Human contact depends of Disney-fying the truths. Everything is easier to take when it comes wrapped in a joke with anime eyes.

Friday is my "eleventh birthday". Eleven years since this stack of dominoes started toppling. The idiopathic cardiomyopathy is connected to the heparin allergy. And the heparin allergy is connected to the paradoxical thromboembolisms. And the paradoxical thromboembolisms is connected to the Budd Chiarri. And the Budd Chiarri is connected to the liver transplant. And the liver transplant is connected to the immunosuppressants. And the immunosupprssants are connected to the lymphoma.

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.