I just quit my job. It’s a long story and it doesn’t matter anymore about the misery that led me to that decision because I feel sure it’s the right thing. I felt so happy today when I left for good. So, it’s an all’s well that ends well kinda thing.
I have no other job and don’t plan on getting one right now.
I crunched some numbers and realized I could probably do a complete life change instead-- if I sold my house and moved somewhere less expensive; e.g., anywhere else but NYC, I’d pocket a hefty profit in this red-hot market.
So, that’s my current plan. I’m going to bum around here for a while and then head to New Mexico--Santa Fe, Las Cruces, Taos, and Silver City-- to look at houses. Then I might check out a couple of places in Colorado—Greeley mainly. It’s a poor woman’s Boulder.
And, on the health front, I’ve had atrocious things going on—ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) was thrown at me like a diagnostic fast ball to the head. I did not believe them. Now two specialists don’t either so thank you, SweetBabyJesus!
I just saw my “new” neuro, who is actually my old neuro from several years ago and one of my favorites docs of all time. He believes I have Guillain-Barré, a disorder in which the body's immune system attacks part of the peripheral nervous system. Or Myesthenia Gravis. WTF?! I tested negative for the MG antibodies and thought that ruled it out but, eh, evidently not so much.
I have 5,000,000 things I’ve been trying to find the energy to write about but I’ve been so perpetually exhausted and struggling with some serious disabilities—some finally seem like they might be getting better and others continue to worsen. Maybe now that I'm ungainfully unemployed, I can blog because one should always abandon one's job to blog nonsense.
Dr. SexyHands told me somebody at Stanford was going to be writing about my case in a medical journal when this diagnosis gets solved. I’ve had quite the elite team of Stanford specialists but no one can get a bead on this shit. I was seeing Dr. SH because my spine is also a wreck—the whole fucking thing, but especially my neck. I’m surprised it can even hold my bowling ball head up.
I can’t believe I might be living high-desert in a few months. Wackadoodle-do.