Well. (Exasperation and incantation.)

Photo copyright Aji, 2019; all rights reserved.

Well.

Yes, I mean that as exasperation and incantation both.

Yesterday was . . . an experience, to say the least. We had to leave before dawn, and that was our guiding spirit up there, up until the point that it vanished behind the slopes of the Gorge. Halfway down, a large coyote along the edge of the road, but no eagles; two different red-tails on the way home, though.

And we made it in nearly record time — 2.5 hours. Everybody likes to talk a lot of trash about how it's only a 2.5-hour drive, and on paper it is (and once, with sufficient incentive, I made it from door to door in 2 hours flat, although I don't recommend anyone try to recreate that). But as a practical matter? LOL. Albuquerque is Construction City, with lanes always torn up and closed off, and also Accident City, with whole sections of two Interstates shut down every single rush hour to deal with the debris. You never know which version you're going to get (usually both), and you have to be prepared for massive delays. Add to that that the Gorge is a narrow, winding two-lane highway, one that gets really slick in bad weather, and we did of course get snow and sleet the preceding night, natch. I have had this same drive take well over four hours on any number of occasions, so to make it in 2.5 door to door (given that we're 15 miles north of the center of Taos)? We got really, really lucky on all counts.

Now. The important stuff, and it is whiplash-inducing. We both like the surgeon; very straightforward, down-to-earth kind of guy, and not one who, despite his chosen profession, takes cutting into bodies lightly. The kind of cutting that has recently been proposed for me is one that carries some fairly heavy risks. And he is not happy — not at all happy — with the biopsy. Which is to say, not with the samples, and most definitely not with the analysis. And so, before taking the risks of cutting into my neck and cutting out a not-insignificant portion of what's inside it, it's back to the drawing board. Specifically, his drawing board. 

We go back down next week so that I can have a second biopsy, this one done, as he put it, by "his people." His radiologist; his pathologist. Because the previous biopsy showed a clear problem with the cells, but the specific nature of said cells is completely unclear. It's either absolutely unreadable (read: they're guessing) or it's damaged (read: they screwed up something on sample, slides, or both) or I'm an outlier in truly astronomical terms. And I'm not that special, so to my mind, that leaves 1) or 2).

This means that there is the possibility of a huge, nearly indescribable ray of light. It also could be that there's not. But if there is . . . well, it was enough yesterday for me to feel fifty pounds lighter all the way home, as though a boulder had quite literally rolled off my neck and throat. Which, of course, it hasn't; not yet, and maybe not at all. But even the prospect . . . whew. Which, today, has been replaced with what began as a vague sense of irritation, now bloomed into full-blown fury. Because IF this is all due to a screw-up — I mean, hell, this is the sort of nonsense that's not even believable as a soap-opera plotline — but if it is . . . . Let me not finish that thought and get myself in trouble. Especially since at the moment we know exactly nothing, and it may turn out to be every bit as bad as the path analysis I just paid an arm and a leg for said it was. Or worse. With these sorts of diagnoses, there are so many, many variables, and there are visually obvious changes to my neck since the last biopsy (and is that due to a screwup?) with measurably more swelling in the mass, measurably much more pain. But hope is an irrepressibly stubborn thing, and it just woke up in my soul in a newly big way. 

Still. I have another bill coming next week for the second biopsy, and then another bill (or maybe two) for the reading of it. We have no answers yet, including no answers as to what almost killed me twice 16+ months ago. And whatever the outcome with this, I still have more testing to undergo related to that. Next goal is paying off the hospitals from that mess, which comes to more than $30K just between the two of them, and they dun me daily, so here are the links:

• My Patreon, The Interstices (Writing Between Worlds) (and if you subscribe today you won't be billed until March 1st for February);
• Wings's site, for sales, with lots of new items posted;
• Wings's direct PayPal link;
• A way to buy me coffee (which actually goes to all of our medical bills, which continue to mount);
• Amazon wishlist, which mostly consists of animal and household stuff, with the kibble back on it; we gave several of our existing bags to a local disabled vet with a starving rescue dog who needed the help;
• Partial registry #1, from Bed, Bath and Beyond. I've added two or three new kitchen-y things on it now, stuff that I didn't realize we'd need.

All we want, to be able to have some confidence in making it through the whole year with whatever they're going to find going wrong in my body, is to make some sales. That's it: sales; nothing else. But I haven't been able to make even that happen, and the stress is telling. Good vibes for Raven are needed today especially (he's still hanging with us, and I need him to be safe while we're out). But we all could use some, too, me most of all. We all could also use some help with sharing Wings's site (and testimonials, if you got 'em). Thanks.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2019; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.