“You’re a healthy woman!” chirps my GP, her slim young hand on my shoulder. My internal wolf wants to bite that hand but just in time I remember I’d rather not lose another tooth.
Yesterday I read a heartening news story of a 45-year-old woman who had earned her PhD in spite of a terminal diagnosis of cancer. Her university was so impressed by […]
The end of the inflammation would surely mean the end of the stiffness and pain. My hands would regain their strength and acuity and I wouldn’t act like a zombie every morning any more.
Getting the form for the prescription of medical marijuana was the easy part. Finding a doctor sufficiently well seated in the current century to give me the prescription? That’s a lot harder.
When one considers the level of stress in our society, its effect on the adrenals and thus on the endocrine system, and the plethora of people sick with mysterious “auto-immune disorders”, is it really so crazy for a patient to inquire after the state of those endocrine organs?
Probably my gimpy left knee was acting up from a long-ago accident which had broken the left leg at the ankle, torn up my back, crushed a shoulder and knocked me out. Who would notice a bunged-up knee in such a mess?
Okay: one, two…three! With a cry, I step out of the grave. “I am Zombie. Hear me moan. The blood I want must be my own!”
It gradually dawned on me that it wasn’t the library job that had knocked me for this loop. I had ignored the increments of trouble brewing in the pot of my life. Now it was impossible to deny the pot was boiling.