* Rheumatologist. He is sympathetic. I am able to joke with him about the disability paperwork: "If I get disability, maybe I can afford my medications!" He asks if my health plan covers massage or myofascial work. It does not. He thinks it should cover physical therapy, though, if I have a scrip, so he gives me one. He is hesitant to give me Skelaxin only because he doesn't want to throw too many CNS drugs at me at once - wants to try increasing the Robaxin first. Okay. So now I take Robaxin in the morning, too.
* Other errands; post office, UPS dropoff, library. Driving driving driving.
* Pharmacy, where they'd shorted me on three of my six scrips, to varying degrees. Bitch pharmacist pretty much outright accuses me of lying. Strong letter of complaint has been submitted to Osco corporate.
I'm home. I'm not even livid about the bitch pharmacist, because I don't have sufficient energy. I'm exhausted, worn out, and the pain is back up to Monday's level. And all of today has been doctors gently and sympathetically saying "you're not going to get better, you know." Which is pretty fucking... I don't know. I don't have the words for that feeling right now. And yeah, I don't have anything terminal, and there are people worse off than me, and yeah. I know. It's just hard to deal with the whole no-hope thing served up by two doctors on the same day. "People say they'd like to get off anti-seizure meds, they say they haven't been having any seizures - but, well, that's because they're on anti-seizure meds." "This is all the fibro. These flares just happen. They'll keep on happening."
After a rest, I think I will reread my post about living from the other day. I'm not there right now. Just kinda numb. Tonight's an ice cream night.