I’m lying on the bed in the corner suite of the Residence Inn just down the street from The Mayo Clinic, where I have my first appointment in the morning. It’s a very nice room. The entire situation is strange but not uncomfortable. I’m alone because my fiancé has to work tomorrow, which is perfectly ok. The day was the best I’ve had in quite a while though my heart just skipped a few beats, and I’m feeling weird all over again.
Is this turning into a journal?
It was not supposed to be a journal, or was it, and I didn’t realize that until now? As long as it is not just a diary, that should be fine.
It is like magic writing this. So far, each time I have written, I’ve immediately felt better.
I changed out of my pajamas and put on full clothes in case I have to go to the ER if things get bad.
I thought about leaving that as the last sentence of this note just in case I didn’t make it through the night or just gave up on this journal after this note. I guess this last paragraph is just as good but perhaps mildly less ominous.
Signing off, love
Deadman