Hmmm. I looked in my back pocket. Not there. Looked in my front pockets. Not there either. I looked behind me. I looked on the floor, under the bed. Damn! Where could they be? Somehow I misplaced them. In a situation like this, what do you do?

Start from the beginning. Okay … easy enough.

It started around 6:59 AM. I heard that sound—that faint beep beep beeping of the alarm. I guess it didn’t really matter. I didn’t really think anything could take it away from me. I didn’t give it a second thought. Though I did plenty of thinking, seemingly only a few hours ago, when head hits pillow. Hoping for a good nights sleep. But it was my head. It was full of thoughts that I didn’t want to escape my lips.

Just got back from Dr R’s office. Had to have an EKG done. Señor Pulmonologist thought I should have one. I’m too tired to be witty right now … so nothing but the facts. The EKG was okay. My heart has not been affected … yet. This is good news. Now all I have to do is get through my bronchoscopy and lung biopsy tomorrow.

After I’ve been poked & peaked at … then it’s time to hold our collective breath for a week … figuratively speaking or course. It will take a week to find out the results. Again with this waiting thing! Oye!

So yeah …I’m nervous about what the doctor will find in there. Maybe a red 1957 Buick Skylark convertible?

Ride ‘em broncho-scopy. It seems that’s what Señor Pulmonologist will be doing on Tuesday the 12th @ 7:00 AM. And I guess metaphorically I’ll be the bronco. Okay. A new doctor, for a new day, with a new test. How can you go wrong with that? I guess I could come up with a few answers. So … yes … Dr H is going to knock me out, shove a scope down my throat, have a look see, and mine some samples while he’s in there. I can hardly wait! Then he’ll send them off to be mused at, sliced diced and julienned …. and I’ll have to wait another week to get those results. This all seems to just drag on. To top it all off he also wants to send me for an echocardiogram to be certain granulomas haven’t started forming in my heart. He also suggested I see a ophthalmologist. Now I was going to make that journey on my own … but now with a little prodding … (move along there bronco boy!) I’ll make that appointment sooner than later.

I’m waiting for Godot, or Godar, or maybe François Truffaut, or any of the other directors of “cinéma de la nouvelle vague française”. Actually I’m waiting for Casey, Dr Mike’s assistant to call me back. He’s investigating getting my pulmonologist appointment moved up. It was set for Monday July 11 @ 2:00 PM, but I didn’t want to have to wait through another weekend for him to take a peak at my lungs … as it were.

Miracle of miracles! He did it. Got it moved to today @ 4:00 PM. I have to run to Swedish to pick up my chesty x-rays & other assorted items. Then I’m off to sell CDs for my friend Amy. She’s playing a lunchtime gig at the IDX tower downtown. Anywho … more later. Have to jam …

Warning danger Will Robinson! This is a major rant. If you are offended easily, close the window NOW! Or click here.

Hi … how are you? Cordial enough. Polite enough. But are people really asking me … how AM I … really? Like most everything else in this life … is it just another desensitized, sanitized question? Homogenized & pasteurized to the point it will not infect or effect? Do I dare tell them? Are they ready to hear how I’m doing. Should I hold this in. Just nod my head say “I’m fine, thanks” … and be on my way? I realize I will tell those people who “need” to know, but even then I’m not quite sure what to tell them. Or how much to tell them.

Well hey … you know … I just found out I have this incredulously incurable disease. That will always “harsh someone’s high” .. or in this case, harsh their “Hi … how are you?” Not my intent. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s my way of “misguiding my anger” like some heat seeking missile exploding in someone’s face with a coy … “Oh ..I’m doing really swell. I just found out I have an incurable disease.” BOOM!

Yup, it will all come out in the wash. It’s laundry day. Not Independence day. Not Sadie Hawkin’s Day. Not even Boxing Day. (Though Chris and I would like to box things up & move into that 4th floor apartment. Oye! What a view!) It’s just a day to do the wash. Now you would think that a simple task like laundry would have no major repercussions other than clean clothes. But these aren’t ordinary days.

Up the stairs. Down the stairs. With my lungs the way they’re feeling, I surely wish there was an escalator to get me up & down that flight of stairs. Who would have thought that something that simple could make me feel so badly. Laundry and stairs.

Now I don’t want to fill you with visions of me crawling up the steps clutching my chest and heaving, gasping for breath, and in my other hand a basket of smelly clothes dragging behind me. No … nothing like that. Let’s just say … breathing … a little labored (said in my best John Stewart voice.)

It’s the little things, or so I’m told. But this seemingly little thing? Not so little. But hey … on the bright side. I’ve got clean clothes!

It’s the weekend. It’s Saturday. No doctors. No tests. No poking. No prodding. No nothin’. I’m just waking up, and I’m not feeling too great. My lungs feel tight this morning. I’m having a bit of trouble breathing. Chris asked me if I wanted to go to the emergency room, but I said “no.” Wouldn’t Nancy Reagan be proud of me! I figured that this is the way my lungs felt yesterday, and this is the way they feel today. I only have to get to Monday & talk to Dr Mike & get his input.

In the meantime I have to deal with the uncertainty & fear that’s going through my head. It’s a hellish place to be. This land of no. No ideas. No clue. No diagnosis. No relief. Where I really want to be is the land of know. That’s the place I’ll be on Monday … with any luck & and an insightful doctor. At least I’ll have answers & I can move forward … where ever that is.