Time Between

"There's the moment it's decided, then there's later when you find out the deciding's all been done."

That's always been one of my favorite lyrics [by my favorite songwriter, pretty much the king of singer-songwriters, Jules Shear.] He wrote that back in the late 1970s, when I first learned of him and his great band, Jules & the Polar Bears. One of my desert island albums would definitely be "Got No Breeding" from 1978. I remember hearing it, and thinking that at once it made both Elvis Costello and Jackson Browne dispensable.

I quote the above lyrics because I'm waiting for the results of my latest round of blood work - something like 7 or so vials of the stuff that I work so hard to produce [and then I just give it away. So sad.]

I see the doc, the rheumatologist - another specialist, thank you very much - next Monday, and I have a feeling, to paraphrase Jules, that the deciding's all been done. That there will be some diagnosis [and concomitant prognosis] at that time [or sooner, if it's really dire and he calls.]

It's a weird feeling; I've been on this health rollercoaster since April, when I got back from Europe. First, acute appendicitis and surgery. Next, a lesion on my lung. Third, blood panels that come back with absolutely inexplicable results. Positive for whooping cough [huh?] And rheumatoid factors that are exponentially higher than they should be. But one or more could be false positives.

So many, many rounds of blood work. A CT scan. A PET scan. An MRI. No diagnosis. So many tests, so many specialists. No answers.

At some point, calling in grumpy misanthrope House would seem a relief. Anyone who had to go on this merry-go-round would welcome his hateful, sarcastic yet ultimately unimpeachable visage. At least he gets things done.

Much like when after I took the bar exam but had not yet gotten my results, I am waiting for an outcome that is likely already determined. A tested already graded, the results not yet published. It's a strange feeling. Or to quote another great songwriter, Lyle Lovett, "She's Already Made Up Her Mind." And I'm just waiting for her to tell me where the chips have fallen.