Truth And Consequences
I'm going to get to bed by midnight if it kills me.

Somehow, though, I don't think it's going to help me get up any earlier.

I found out on Sunday night that I've go to go in for a flex sigmoidoscopy. It's essentially a colonoscopy of the rectum and sigmoid colon without the sedatives. Fucking hardcore, right? It's being done to see where I ought to go next, be it an immediate course of Remicade without tapering, an eventual course of Remicade with tapering or surgery.

I'm looking forward to finding out what's going on in there, but I'm afraid to find out that things have gotten worse. I'm also looking forward to getting off my cyclosporine, which I'm eager to replace with the bactrim. I know, it's all Greek to you, right?

Tom left for another festival. I'm not going to pretend that I'm going to get along well without him because, as much as I want him to have a good time - and I do - I'd have had him stay home. It's not as bad as it seems, but I think I'm in such a position that I'm allowed this one bit of angst: quantitatively, Tom and I have spent more time away from one another than we have together this summer.

I know it's not exactly realistic - we're considering time spent talking face to face versus time spent not talking at all. But I've been widowed here, so let me have my misery.

And the fucking itching is back.

Oh, and we've lost Pluto. :(

Life sucks.