Ms. Ravelled is a tough ol’ bird.

But one which is feeling increasingly plucked, these days.

In the past two weeks I have had two separate incidents of the Sneezing Olympics (can I say that without bringing the USOC down on my head?), hives, the usual swelling/redness/itching from eating something I shouldn’t, a pinched nerve which has mostly resolved, and a couple of other symptoms that I really do not want to discuss here on the blog. Nothing life-threatening, plenty that goes way beyond annoying. Yesterday afternoon, about the time I was getting my mail out, my left foot started itching in a familiar way. It would appear that the Athlete’s Foot Fairy swung by sometime after lunch and smacked me with her prickly little wand.

I took my itchy, swollen self to the temple last night, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, right there in the lobby, but the children’s father sitting with his back to me. And the Spirit did not let me off the hook. I walked around into his field of vision, greeted him, and sat down on the couch near his chair. He asked how Beloved was doing. I told him we had just lost my mother-in-love, and he offered condolences. I was glad to be able to tell him about the clinical trial we hope to get Beloved into, and that we should hear shortly.

And then his ride walked out into the lobby, was introduced to me, and asked in a gently humorous way, how I could ever have divorced such a nice guy. And I was totally speechless for the second time in less than a year (the first time being when Beloved surprised me with the engagement ring at the dance at my last-ever singles’ conference, Heaven willing).

Brigham Young said that he who takes offense where none is intended, is a fool. (And that he who takes offense when it is intended, is a greater fool, but it was quite obvious to me that none was intended. The good brother’s wife probably chastened him once they got into their car, or after they dropped the children’s father off at the nursing home.)

The children’s father was never not a nice guy, at least not to me.

So I was a little bit of a basket case as I walked back to change out of my street clothes, but dinner took care of most of that, and my responsibilities kept me productively occupied. My symptoms backed off enough that I could focus on what I needed to do, but remained just sufficiently there that I had no difficulty staying awake.Rather like the fleas that Corrie Ten Boom’s sister was thankful for.

Beloved’s younger brother is here for a couple of days. We likes him. I will be dropping him off at the VA Hospital for a checkup, before heading into work. And then I will be calling my doctor’s office, to see if she is in today and if they can fit me in. If not, I will Gold Bond my way through the weekend, and I will see her as early as possible next week.

I want a nutritional workup. I want a referral to an allergist. And I want to discuss with her, and with Beloved’s oncologist, whether some of my symptoms might be connected Beloved’s chemotherapy. I also want to get checked for lupus, fibromyalgia, and whatever else might be taking punches at my immune system.

We are, most likely, having dinner up at OlderTwin’s house tonight. While there I will have my guys give me a blessing. I am tired (but not sleepy), and I just want to sit in a corner and weep into my knitting. (I hasten to add that I am not depressed. I am just sick. And tired. And determined to be well again, whether I need food supplements, physical therapy, a personal trainer, my own private pharmacologist, or whatever. Let me just say that Biofreeze on a trigger point is an amazingly lovely experience.)

Life is still very good, very sweet. Just hand me that box of Puffs, and don’t even think of getting between me and my knitting. I have eaten a nice, sensible breakfast: raisin bran and whole-wheat toast. Time for a banana, and to figure out what I want for lunch, brush my teeth, grab the bro, and go.