Had an appointment with my GI doctor today, the one who originally ordered the tests that led to the discovery that I had multiple myeloma. Was strange — he teared up at some points during our conversation, which is now the second time I’ve experienced that. Much like my last impression when it happened with my original doctor at the Mayo Clinic, while it’s nice to know your doctor is so connected to you and your situation, it’s also somewhat of a confirmation that you’re pretty well fucked.
They are scheduling a colonoscopy next week. I had something light up on the PET/CT scan that I did, and while nobody seems concerned (they had just done one a year ago and apparently things don’t happen that fast in your colon), I’d like to be reassured nothing is going wrong there if nothing else. More importantly however my GI doctor believes since the Mayo Clinic requested it be done that they might not proceed with my transplant if it isn’t. So one more thing to stress about, although given the fact that everything feels fine there (in fact better than usual, really, considering I was seeing him for recurring diverticulitis) I’m not too worried.
I am, however, utterly sick of doctors at this point. Nothing against any of mine, I just don’t like medical stuff and I feel like my life is one big fucking doctor’s appointment. I want to be normal again, to not have the weight of this nightmare constantly bending my back down like a backpack full of rocks. I want to be happy, and feel what “carefree” is like again. I don’t remember it anymore, don’t remember what it’s like to have nothing to stress about (much less a terminal disease). I stare down the barrel of this every minute of every day now and it’s so hard to muster the strength to keep going, to keep telling myself to get through the day and the one tomorrow. To convince myself I’ll have plenty of time with my daughter and to do the things I wanted to do in life.