After spending the morning and a couple of afternoon hours hooked up to the first of my semi-annual-two-day Rituxan infusion, meant to kill "B cells" and to hamper my immune system in its quest to fight--not bad germs and such, but--me. Despite my mother's repeated urging to go to bed for the rest of the day, I feel fine. Rested. (It did involve sitting on my butt for many hours of inactivity.)
I feel fine enough that I really did mean to go out and mow the lawn when I got home. Hey--there are steroids involved! But then "when I got home" became "after I do a bit of painting," and, well, now I have to get some supper before going out to a Library Board meeting.
Maybe I'll mow tomorrow.
Here's wishing that fewer B cells turn around my Sjogren's Syndrome. Or forestall some developments. At least a little bit.
I feel fine enough that I really did mean to go out and mow the lawn when I got home. Hey--there are steroids involved! But then "when I got home" became "after I do a bit of painting," and, well, now I have to get some supper before going out to a Library Board meeting.
Maybe I'll mow tomorrow.
Here's wishing that fewer B cells turn around my Sjogren's Syndrome. Or forestall some developments. At least a little bit.
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| watercolor on paper |
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