I took the subway to 68th Street and walked and walked and walked. Fortunately, the weather was nice. I made it just in time for my appointment with my new Hematologist/Oncologist, Dr. Shore. Whereas Dr. Antin, my doctor for the past 3 years, is known for his asperity, and wastes not one second of anybody's time, Dr. Shore appeared to have all day to take my medical history and record my drug list, both of which could suck the life out of a normal person. It's my story, and even I was bored.
Once the data was entered, she examined me and pronounced the gvh of my skin to be improved to the point where I can reduce the prednisone I take for the condition to 30 mg./day. I was hoping for 20, but any amount is appreciated. My swollen ankle demanded an x-ray, although nobody thinks it's broken. My blood pressure was excellent, 114/70, but I still have to take the lisinopril for a while longer. I'll see Dr. Shore again in 3 weeks. Her goal is to wean me completely off the prednisone. I'm so down with that.
A lab technician came in to torture me. Normally, my blood flows freely, but I'd unaccountably turned into a stone, or at least a frozen bored mass. She had to stick me twice and wiggle plenty to find anything, and I left with an industrial-size bandage on the crook of my arm. All I can say is, ouch.
I bumped into my friend Dianne just as I got off the subway. Eight million people in the City and I come face to face with one of the 50 or so I know. There's no explaining this.
Marty and I unenthusiastically went to the gym. I made chicken curry for dinner, which was delicious. Then I went unconscious. Seeing a new doctor took a lot out of me.
I miss you, Joe.