I probably should have picked a different title. This one sounds like maybe I’m writing about a Dolly Parton drag queen. I’m just tired of referring to myself as the Iron Maiden and the “I Am Iron Man” joke was old even before the first time I said it. It was pre-old. Like when you hear about a new variety show on tv and you silently pray that they’ll cancel it before it airs even once because having it around gives you fits and reminds you of being a kid during the 70s when tv had three and a half channels and you had to watch The Carol Burnett Show.
I’m back from the sabbatical that was forced upon me by my lack of blood. I’d gotten so stupid I had no idea how stupid I was. I just know that it went from “I can’t write anymore” to “I can’t remember that ice cream goes in the freezer, not the soup cupboard.” I had my first iron infusion last Wednesday, and it seems to have worked. I sat in a chair for six hours while red liquid iron dripped into my veins; by the time I left I could tell that my brain was starting to think thoughts again.
The procedure does come with side effects, and I’ve had them–am having them now–and they aren’t pretty. But they’re worth it. Yes, I will trade a week of joint pain and nausea for three months of mental acuity.
I haven’t written anything other than FB status updates for the simple reason that I couldn’t harbour a thought in my head long enough to turn it into something worthy of record. I suppose I should henceforth force myself to write every day regardless so that when I start to need iron again I’ll know it by the way my blog topics veer toward babbling incoherence.