So I’m attempting to type on a laptop that is balanced precariously on my lap while propped up on pillows in bed. There’s a stack of unread magazines and books beside me and a husband wielding a dish towel outside the door if I attempt to veer from the pre-approved path between the bathroom and bed. He’s bringing me watermelon and cookies upon request and I get the impression that I’ll be allowed back up soon. Tomorrow perhaps. Thursday I had six vials of blood taken and picked up a prescription for an antiobiotic and a painkiller. And for the record, the painkiller seems to knock me for a loop. I’m getting ahead of myself though aren’t I?

For the past month or so I’ve not felt so great. Oh I haven’t felt horrible. But I’ve been run down some days, more tired than I should be. Then a spot under my left arm started becoming uncomfortably tender, then swollen, and finally painful and Wednesday Jon informed me after long…discussions…that I was going to the doctor. So Thursday we went. And the PA went through his laundry list of questions to cover diabetes and thyroid issues all the while kicked back, looking half asleep. And then I mentioned a history of auto-immune issues in my family. Okay actually my mother has lupus and her aunt did…I don’t know if that counts as a “history” but suddenly Mr. PA was a bit more interested in the proceedings. In the end he decided to remove half my blood to test for everything under the sun, then poked and prodded at the swollen spot until I left claw marks in the table and cried. And then had the nerve to say “Well it looks like we have a tender little lymph node there don’t we?”  I resisted the urge to kick him in the balls and reply “Well now it looks like we have a tender little groin there don’t we?”