Wish Me Luck, The Same To You

I still can't wrap my head around the fact that this is forever. The pain gets worse; it moves, it morphs. It tortures me. I can buy an hour without discomfort by swallowing two ibuprofen, but that is short-lived and leaves me the other 23 hours in which to cry in pain. Don't be fooled by the fact that I cooked dinner, or picked some okra, or put on some make-up and combed my hair. The pain never dies.

It is frustrating when one's doctors don't fully understand how permanent this debilitation is.  I'm not going to get better.  My mental acuity is shot to spit; my hearing and eyesight are PDC (pretty damn crappy). I will never again be able to stand up in court and argue case law and statutes.  Hell, I have enough problems just standing up.  

It wasn't supposed to be this way.  I was going to work forever - the joke was I would die at my desk, at some advanced age.  The job, the passion, the devotion - it was for the kids.  God knows there was neither glory nor gelt from what I did for so long. (Although once I did get a thank you note from Governor Jeb Bush for my work on a Department task force.)

Don't be fooled by the fact that I can write this blog.  It takes me all day, and I rely heavily on spell check and word processing to go back over and over, correcting each time.

Today is the day of my "hearing". I don't know what to expect. I am grateful it can be done via conference call. (Imagine me having to pull on pantyhose and a skirt, driving to downtown Orlando and trying to find a parking space at the Hurston Building.)  I am befuddled that it has to be done at all.  I want this all to be over and done with. I also want to use up that half container of buttermilk in my fridge before it becomes unusable (does buttermilk ever really go bad?)

Total non sequitur.  Is that me or is it fibromyalgia?

Seven minutes before I call in to the conference line.  Wish me luck.