Ugh. . .

Every time I think I’ve got something figured out, I turn out to be wrong. It’s like being in the middle of a giant, whirlwind tornado. You think you’ve found safety in a cellar. So, you run to it only to find out it’s locked. You turn around to look for someplace else to go for safety, when suddenly the tornado comes from nowhere and sucks you up in it again. There doesn’t seem to be a way out. All you can do is pray that the tornado somehow sets you down safely, and you can salvage parts of your life.

Every time the phone rings, and it’s not about the Baclofen pump trial I want to scream. I want to scream to someone, “Do you know it’s been four years? Put me at the front of the line!” I don’t though. I pray. I write. I get angry. Then I yell. This is on a constant repeat cycle.

Someday the phone will ring, and it will be time to set up the trial. The phamlet about it says the procedure will change your I wish into an I can. I hope by the end of this there are a lot of things I will say I can to.