It has been quite a week here, beginning with an ultrasound of my swollen underarm that revealed unsuspicious lymph nodes. As I primly and eloquently told my wife leading up to the appointment, “My doctors are so far up my ass that if anything was horribly wrong, they would know by now.” This returns us to square one, with my rheumatologist uncertain if it’s a reaction to Humira or something else that’s responsible for my arm pain and discomfort. Until she figures out our next move, there’s not much to do but suck it up and see if a steroid taper reduces the swelling.
In other intrigue, Crankenstein has been under the weather. When asked for a self-diagnosis, she pronounced her illness “F*ck if I know.” She had a sore throat, fever and fatigue. She is often exposed to COVID at work, including in the week leading up to her illness. Her initial concern was that we stay away from each other, so I played nurse from a distance until her fever broke. After three negative COVID tests on successive evenings, she escaped her bedroom exile and daringly sat on the couch—and then got sick again later that night. Now she’s back on the mend and probably relieved I watched Flood! without her.
Cranky Lesbian is a disgruntled homosexual with too much time on her hands. Click for film reviews or to follow on Instagram.