Fibromyalgia, Travel & Creative Nonfiction | Sometimes You Have to Be Poked & Prodded (Boston Update)

It’s been a long day. Actually. it’s been a long weekend. I arrived in Boston on Saturday night but didn’t arrive at my hotel until early Sunday morning. Slept for 3 hours, contemplated why the universe placed a homemade ice-cream place next to where I’m staying. Bought myself some grapenut ice-cream, slept 3 more hours, woke again, and contemplated some more. Slept 3 more hours. Rushed to catch a bus, and then another. Went to the dentist. Endured 3 novocaine shots. Replaced two fillings. Walked way more than I should have. Felt accomplished. Went to the dermatologist. I don’t have anything cancerous. But my hair is thinning due to PCOS…probably.

Took my time to catch a bus, to catch a subway, to wait for another bus, to take that to my final appointment. Saw my doctor. She made me laugh. Actually, we make each other laugh. I’ve gained too much weight. That may have affected my mood. I need to be on more medications.  That may help my mood. It may help my thinning hair. It may help my weight. I smile and laugh. I get sent down to the lab to pee, to give 4 vials of blood, to get hit on by a random hospital worker.

I remind myself that I still need to pack things, to bring my life into some kind of order. I’m asked what I am doing in Rome. I say I am living. I ask myself that, too. I respond the same way. I poke and I prod myself. I take deep breaths like I’m told to, like I tell myself. My blood pressure isn’t so high. Still I need to get back on my medications. I need to control myself. I need to prod myself. To poke myself into some kind of action.

I speak about overcoming depression, fibromyalgia, being in my late thirties…because 37 is late, it’s not mid anymore. My body is changing. It needs different things than what I’m used to giving it.

It’s 18:11. I need to get home…but where is it?

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