Schroedinger's Dreams

I have a chronic disease. Don't ask me what it is, I don't know. It comes in irregularly-timed cycles, and when it comes, I am incapacitated. I sleep more than half the day; I lose feeling of certain parts of my body, one at at time; I lose control of my legs and collapse unpredictably; I am dizzy all the time. It has been like this for one year now. They cannot tell me what it is. Therefore, they cannot cure it.

On this past Friday, the 18th of July, 2003, I went to see a new doctor, one who actually listened to me and believed the words I said. She ran a battery of tests on me (9 vials of blood, baby!). I think the nurses felt bad about making me go through it. I was ecstatic that somebody in the medical profession was doing something about this instead of treating me like a hysterical woman. The two front-runners for "why she's sick and bitching all the time" are chronic fatigue syndrom and Lyme disease. One is treatable, one is not.

My dreams and plans for the future are currently stuck in an indeterminate quantum state. If this is Lyme disease, then they can treat it, and I should be fine, few or even no lingering effects from what I lovingly call "the sickness." I can still pursue my goals of being an actor, a costume designer, a super-techie, a biotech researcher, a novelist, and/or a poet. If it is chronic fatigue syndrome, and it doesn't get any better, I can rule out being a researcher, and I will likely have to look at being a novelist as a twenty-year goal, not a ten year goal (as the time I project it will take me to finish a novel will go from 4-5 years to something more like 10). If it is chronic fatigue syndrome, even if it does get better, all theater-related careers are out. I know nobody in theater who does not at least occasionally pull 15-hour days, and when you're fixing the leading lady's bodice, it has to get done by opening night, come hell or high water. And you may ask me, is that really so hard? Well, honey, just writing this sad little piece has just about exhausted me for the night.

Just until Friday, I just keep saying, just until Friday.
How did Schroedinger's cat ever deal with it?