So it's been quite awhile.  I can't believe two years have passed since I found out my doctors screwed up for 10 years and I've had autoimmune issues this entire time.  I'm on even higher doses of Imuran, switched to Orencia because Dr. House was wrong--sometimes it IS Lupus--diet changes, more pills (I can't even wrap my head around how many pills I have to take in a day, even though more than half are supplements), new diagnoses like vertigo, degenerative disk disease, herniated disks, spinal compression fractures, vertigo, and more questions than answers as symptoms reappear, worsen, one problem is taken care of only to be replaced by another complication.  I want to return to school.  Or work.  Or something.
     But it's not all bad news.  At least there's Sundays.  When I'm feeling up to it I go with my dad to help with the rebuilding of a 1968 Firebird.  I still remember being a little girl helping him rebuild my uncle's old Jaguar.  It's where and how I learned about cars--and how to drown misbehaving dolls in used oil.  Before that was an old Mustang, but the only thing I really remember was learning the proper use of the word "fuck" while pissed off.  We worked together to rebuild the engine in my first car to get it on the road.  It was always kind of our thing.  So this is bittersweet.  I get to spend time with my dad and get to work on cars again, even if it's an hour or two.  It does make me miss working in the shop, though.  I miss the work.  The challenge.  How every day was different.
       Every time I think I have everything figured out, accepted things for what they are, think everything is finally under control, know what's going on, I realize I don't have a damn clue.  Eventually.