status.

It is quiet.  There is a Henry Boy nestled in my bed, a Jack nestled in Jack's bed, and an Elliott in a new-to-us toddler bed.  The Mister and Miss O are reading a Redwall book in her room.  And I'm here.

Things are fuzzy tonight; they have not been fuzzy all day.   There was no fuzzy yesterday, but yesterday I forgot to take the steroids that dull the pain and cause the migraine that needs the drugs that bring the fuzzy... and today I took the steroids.  My face lit on fire and my scalp seared the roots of my hair and my eyes travelled in circles and my head spun and my feet shuffled and I became cross again.  So I took the drugs that make all of that go away.

But, at this very moment, I do not hurt.  

There was a doctor appointment in which many things were discussed.  Rheumatologist.  Blood test. Another blood test, and then some more blood test after that.  Geneticist.  Gastro-blah-blah-ologist (no offense to the gastroblahblahologists out there).  Procedures that finish and render impossibilities, while at the verysame time create opportunity.  Things with disease and disorder in the names.  

Things were fuzzy that day, too, but not because of the drugs that bring the fuzzy.  And not because of the disease and disorder, either.  Things were fuzzy because of the spark of hope that was kindled by the identification of which disease and disorder, and the knowledge that all of this is not created by my crazy brain.

I'm not crazy.  I'm not crazy.  This is real and I've had it my entire life and there's a reason I've always felt tired and old and horrible.  There's an actual organic cause to the antenatal depression I suffered when I was pregnant with Elliott, and I didn't make it up and it's not ever been faked or used to get attention or any of the things I was told when I was growing up.  It is possible that I felt that way  because that's the way I felt and now I have proof.

Things are fuzzy, but the relief is so crystal clear and I am holding it close.