Pas de Deux Tres

First things first. Happy birthday, stellaluna_. I haven't known you long or well, but I hope you have a happy one.

I went to the uni clinic for the third time today. Another blood test. The doctor is convinced there is nothing wrong with me, or so he says, and yet, he ordered a CT scan for tomorrow to rule out appendicitis, a funky gallbladder, stomach tumors, or ovarian cysts. If it's either of the first two, I'll be admitted for surgery. If it's a stomach tumor... I don't even want to think about it. If nothing turns up on the scan and I'm still hurting, he's going to refer me to a gastrointerologist to check for colitis, ulcerated bowel, or Crohn's.

Part of me is so angry. I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs. I don't have indiscriminate sex, or indeed, any sex at all. I love salad, am moderate with caffeine in contrast to most of the people in my age bracket. I do indulge in fried foods with abandon, however, and I am a stress wad, but it still seems unfair. Isn't CP enough?

You know, it sounds funny, but when you're in a chair, you often ascribe to the idea that since God has touched you once, He will not touch you again, that being a cripple is some crazed antibody cocktail that will protect you against all other disease. Intellectually, you know it's untrue, but you fall into the trap all the same, and when reality intrudes, you feel righteously gypped.

We'll find out tomorrow, I suppose.