There is comfort in familiarity. Since I was a young woman, I have never tolerated having blood drawn well. My mother was always one of those regular donors of the best kind of blood, but I didn't inherit her genetics. My husband's veins are so good, he might as well have a permanent tap with one of those cute handles like they have for craft beers. My kids have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about when I say I get dizzy from the slightest blood loss--they take after their father and both grandmothers. I'm not afraid of needles. I went years giving myself daily injections (although I'm super glad I don't do that anymore, and I will never volunteer for it again). I just get sleepy, brainless, and limp after every test. Naps are no longer optional on those days. They are inevitable and involuntary. And today, after trying yet one more time to get the ratio of anti-nuclear antibodies so we can figure out where to start lupus treatment, I barely made it into the house before I started babbling as I kicked off my shoes and dropped my hoodie somewhere on the floor on my way to bed. But while it was nice to know what to expect, it didn't make it any more dignified to feel like a kitten who fell asleep face down in a dish of milk.
I did stuff today. I really did. I even got back into the work groove and took over responsibilities on the back side of the web site, after a week and a half where I wouldn't even log in. But I did very little to spark creativity on my writer's side. I read other people's words. I don't think I have enough of my own. I may have to cut this off here, and show the one family member who showed a bit of initiative today, Mr Murray who pulled himself up onto the top stair once he was removed from his wheelchair. Seems like a lot of work just to go pee on a pair of shoes, but who am I to judge?
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