There’s a lot I want to blog about. My engagement (thank you for all the congratulations!), my Healthy Living Summit experience (wow I am behind on that one), why running is so impossible for me lately, the race I ran last weekend and the half marathon I’m running this weekend. Work’s been, well, work, and my time is stretched thin. Also, I really like watching Criminal Minds on the couch. I might love Hotch more than Andy. I’m still deciding about that. I plan to catch up on all my blogging though, because I’m not quite ready to give this blog up despite how strong the pull of the Behavioral Analysis Unit can be.
And today I want to talk about that GI doctor’s appointment last week, the one I mentioned last month. The one I only made because Andy and my mom were on top of me to see a doctor again. “Maybe someone else (in addition to the seven I’d already seen) will know something,” they said. And really, I wanted to go too. I hoped someone would at least be on my side and help me. I had a glowing recommendation from someone, and I waited for my September 12 appointment to come.
Despite my skepticism that the doctor would actually know of anything new that could help me, I still had high hopes. Andy told me I should go in with an open mind. As though I wasn’t. I mean, I expressed my disbelief that anything would come of this but that didn’t mean my mind wasn’t open. As though I’m not, despite tons of reasons not to be, an optimist.
I’ve always been this way. Even before I knew the word I was aware of how I always expected everything to be good. I always got excited for new things and embraced change. I always think the next thing will be better or at the very least, I know I’ll come out still feeling generally positive about something else.
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