Five
I don’t want to write this down. Not any of it. The doctor says I must.
I wrote the heading last time. Then I went to bed for three hours. Five minutes that turned into three hours.
The doctor says these notes rule my life until we find out more about what’s wrong, she says. I say I need to live. She says fine, but write everything down. I say it hurts; she says fine, dictate it. Don’t edit, just dictate. If it comes out funny, that’s fine. I hate dictating. Only if it hurts—I’ll only talk into my goddam computer when my fingers can’t type or my body’s so weary it doesn’t give a damn about anything and even breathing’s hard work. And I’ll keep my notes and my doctor will add them to all these damnblastedidiot blood tests and maybe one day we’ll find out what’s wrong. Maybe. One day
