So I still wait to hear from my neurosurgeon. He is back in the office by now, but in surgery today. I might still hear from him (or more likely, one of the nurses/SAs) tonight, though. Maybe tomorrow. I'm terrified that he'll want an office visit, that this will mean hard news. Last time I had an MRI, it was just a phone call: "Your test results came back negative. Get another MRI done in a year and bring it to us." Every time I think about the possibility that he might want me to come in, I want to vomit. This time, I have so much to lose; I hate this gamble, and that it's a gamble I never chose.
It has thus been impossible (still) to work, which makes me feel even worse. Guilty (as if I don't deserve good health if I don't even use it) and worthless. I had planned to have started writing this new section of the Portrait paper at the start of September. I haven't even finished with the reading I had planned to do (though, granted, I'm close).
Yet here I am stupidly complaining - I should be glad for another day. Soon, this will be over - I'll be fine and on a flight to London, and then, this will have seemed so silly. Less than two weeks, this will all be over.