Burst of energy

My somatosensory nervous system had never experienced an infusion of zoledronic acid before. 
It reacted the same way it used to if I drank too much too fast back in my 20s when I was learning my limits, choosing limits I could live with, finding out if they could be expanded or not, negotiating with my physicality.
In other words, it was like a giant hangover. I threw up and everything. Everything hurt and I was very tired and my brain had to figure out new ways to keep me going, by putting me down for long naps. 
And it did pretty well, I'd say. Way to go brain. Prior experience. Contingency strategies at the ready.  

All I had for residual effects was Crabby Foot Syndrome. Back in April 2023, I had a serious encounter with gout (I think) in my left foot that made me closely question my attitude to, and appetite for, red wine and cheese. I have not had red wine since. I found some cheese I like, though, some imported sharp cheddar with no food colouring. Pricey, but delicious, and it seems to play well with my foot. The gout, at least what I assume was gout, took a few weeks to resolve, on its own, with just aspirin and very carefully planned and executed limping. I'll never forget how incredibly nociceptive it was. 
(I classify anything going on in the peripheral nervous system that hurts, as "nociceptive." I refuse to use the word "pain," unless there is an attached sense of despair and hopelessness and need to seek care.)
OK, I confess, I did seek care: as soon as I could tolerate putting on a boot (it was April and there was still snow lying around), I went to the walk-in clinic, only to find a sign on the door that the doctor was away on holiday.  So, I ended up without any care. Which was OK, because it resolved by itself and by me taking aspirin, every four hours, and trying to ignore it. 

So, with this whole infusion experience, that gout experience came back, not nearly as horrible as the first time though, or as irritable, just a little limp, no nociception except for a bit on weight-bearing, no ability to count my pulse by the throbs in the first metacarpal phalangeal joint left foot. Just persistent. Did not vanish by day two along with all the other physical discomforts. 
So I took myself over to the pharmacy. I asked if aspirin was contraindicated because of its blood-thinning capacity, remembering how obsessed everyone seemed to be at the IV encounter that had gone slightly sideways the week before, asking, was I on blood-thinners. I was told it was probably OK. So I bought some yesterday and took a couple this morning. 

Today is Saturday, and I don't know exactly why, could just be better blood flow from the aspirin, but I felt very motivated to do a big bunch of house-cleaning this morning, including a tidy-up of my two bookcases (down-sized from three several years ago, and before I moved back to Weyburn in 2009, downsized from seven) with the intention to cull for the next library book sale. Instead I ended up organizing the bejeebers out of them, and they look fine now and the cull can wait. But the dusting and damp mopping was particularly satiating, scratched some little zen itch I didn't even know I had, way deep inside.  

The story I'm telling myself is that it's because I'm preparing my space for not having me physically in it. I have been taking manageable amounts of unnecessary stuff off to the SallyAnn for several weeks already. Swedish Death Cleaning. Not wishing my stuff to be a burden on other people once I'm not here. Remembering the nightmare, cleaning out my mother's condo when she moved over to Parkway Lodge the summer of 2020, during covid, she who was 94 or 95 at the time and had a lot of stuff stowed in there, loved fine china and new clothes. So much stuff. My two younger siblings came and the three of us managed to get rid of it all, even with all the protocols that were in place at the time. No more than three garbage bags full per day per person at the time. Nine bags per day, for days. 

I had a wonderful conversation with a nurse who works for MAiD (Medical Assistance in Dying) on Wednesday.
The first step is to sign a paper with a witness present. Not quite done yet, but set up for Tuesday.
The second step is to be interviewed by an assessor. He is a medical doctor and will come to my home.  On Wednesday. 

OMG.
A home visit from a doctor. And so soon!
So I figured I better get the place looking, well, at least clean and tidy and contained. And those book shelves that were so unforgivably neglected and dusty now look beautiful and spare and sparkly. I want to make a good impression on this guy. His opinion will count heavily in whether I can be on their list or not. 
I want him to see me like I'm a new recruit in the military, with polished boots, a tight no-wrinkle bed, a crisp salute. Focused. Determined. At a doorway to something existential. Willing to comply. 
It's about him not being unnecessarily distracted by contextual environmental nocebo. 
It's also about my feeling prepared to meet him here, in full locus of control over my personal environment, space, inner space.  
Zen AF.