Syrupy & dark
It's a weekly chore, the trip down to the hospital. I've had blood taken there more often in the past two months than I've managed to go grocery shopping. It's my regular stop, more regular than any local pub or any friends house or anywhere except work, home and the dojo. I know the routine, roll my sleeve up without being asked, direct them to the best vein, barely flinch at the needle, become more and more fascinated each time with the thick, dark slosh of venous blood in the official little vials. I used to do nice things for myself after these sessions, go get a milkshake or buy myself lunch, but it's so routine now it doesn't even register as worth rewarding.
The ladies in the pathology clinic crack jokes about my name, ask about my piercings, and know me well enough by now to ask me when I'm going to make them all scarves and hats.
My file is a huge fat thing, bulging and bloated with paper and blood test reports. I picture my recalcitrant metabolic hormone levels in a cluttered little chart, jagging up and down and all over the place without any apparent regard for how they're supposed to be reacting to the treatments that work precisely the same for everyone in the world except for me.
It's precisely no fun at all to sit as an outlier statistically of a disease that is, for most of the population, incredibly easily managed. I am beginning to understand that when I am told that there is a 'very minor chance' of such-and-such a complication occurring, the chances are good my body's going to bless me with it (since it has, after all, every single other time). It's so hard to maintain the necessary momentum to push through this, to keep going, to stay on top of it, to do the hours of work it takes to be actively managing and moving towards the elusive promise of definitive treatment, when I constantly doubt whether this can ever really be resolved.
Oh, the plodding out of this period of crisis. On and on and on. Unresolved, potentially unresolvable. I may never have housing stability, I am unlikely to ever have a body that functions without extensive medical management, and evidence suggests that romantic and sexual partnerships are only ever a short-lived possibility. I know (I know I know I know) I just need to Accept It, and Deal With It, and Get Over It, and somehow manage to live a life amongst and between these facts, but it's so tiring, so draining, so bare of joy or inspiration.