bizarre syncronicity

I've been struggling a bit. Some good things have happened, some ill health. Spring has finally hit DC. I havent' been writing but I have been making visual art. I makle plans which I don't execute...everyone who sent me a mixed CD or a present will receive a woodcut from me eventually. I sent one to my mom and it made her cry; I gave one to Molly and s/he did as well. It's harder for me to give a gift that causes people to burst into tears.

Being less functional in my world often still involves a level of overcommitment most find baffling. I made it out to the DC social forum, to the National Conference on Organized Resistance, I'm driving to Durham this weekend for the SURGE conference (but really as an excuse to see my pals there and meet Jilly's baby). I've done my chores, done my work, had a few therapy appointments, made it to Spanish class every Thursday. I cook brunch Saturdays, my laundry gets done.

One week I'd made two rounds of doctor appointments. The first was a Monday morning appointment with a geneticist; I wanted to see if I have the same mutations that killed my father and my father's father. The second, my routine every-six-month bloodwork. I hadn't expected it, but that was when I felt grief most intensely...sitting in a chair, rubber band strapped around my arm, waiting for the predictable prick I could only think of the thousands of IVs and blood draws I saw during the three weeks dad was in the hospital. I had remained vigilant: don't draw blood on the shunt arm, don't take blood pressure anywhere but this section of forearm. The nurses said they appreciated my presence as a verbal chart. I understood that the information in the chart was somehow never quite enough to convey what they needed to know, but that this wasn't their personal fault.

Two of my dear friends each mailed me, without the other knowing it, a copy of Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. It's about the moment of and year after the sudden death of her husband and multiple hospitalizations of her daughter. It has been incredibly helpful if difficult to read. I will be sending the other copy to my mother shortly.

I've been vaguely sick for weeks...first with a queasiness that also afflicted my housemates and co-workers, which resolved after I took a day off to sleep. Then a fever and a cough. I am now at home, awake but soon to be asleep again. I'd rather this thing get out of my chest.

I finished the book today. No sooner had I set it down, reeling a bit from its end, thinking about my dad, then I get a call from an unknown 202 number.

It's the geneticist. Is now a good time? Yes, it's great. The lab messed up the amino acid assay, as I warned you they probably would. OK, no problem. I'm happy to get the labs done again.

She helpfully delivers the lab information and offers to fax the prescription. It's not far from my work. I think the conversation is ending. I'm wrong.

"I have some more results to report. It does appear that you have the two of the common MTFR mutations. They can be treated with the B vitamin and folic acid vitamin therapy you've already been taking... [there was more, I won't put it all here]"

Sigh. I had hoped to dodge this particular bullet. Thirteen years of being vegan and taking vitamins has probably helped me get a leg up, but nonetheless. The amino acid assay will tell us what we need to know: how elevated are my levels of homocystine? Am I deficient in any particular amino acid? Am I doing everything I want to do in life, or preparing for it, given that if I follow in my forebears' footsteps I am soundly at mid-life?

Sometimes I appreciate the sense of humor this universe has, but today it's a little rough.