Got my wonderful-looking contributor copy of MARGIE 2009 today, with so many names…just a few include Alicia Ostriker, Tony Hoagland, Annie Finch, my publisher Tom Hunley, and a multitude of others. I’ve always enjoyed MARGIE and this issue is no exception. Plus, it has my poem “The Robot Scientist’s Daughter [morbid]” from the new collection I’m working on. I’m getting happier with the collection every day as I work on it, and even submitted work from the manuscript to the NEA.

I also got my MRI results for my left ankle: a torn ligament. Don’t know if it will need surgery. The right ankle is healing up normally for a sprain, right on schedule. Still running a high fever for the third week in a row, but at least the sun was out today. Still very wintry outside, still too far from spring.
And, on the urging of several of my doctors, had a meeting with the local hematologist, a very nice and enthusiastic gentleman who was surprised and excited to get a patient with PAI-1 deficiency, as it’s fairly rare. He even went back and called a hematology guy from UC Davis who has worked with a PAI-1 deficiency patient before, (who reiterated that my Seattle Hem-Onc is one of the best in the country with this particular kind of disorder – go Dr. Gernsheimer!) and called me at home with his advice. And when he talked to me, I was so thankful for those pre-med classes, so the scary stuff he said was all understandable. Sometimes having my rare disorders can make me feel lonely and scared; I mean, really, who can I talk about my fears and worries about? I took inspiration from Jilly and started a PAI-1 deficiency blog, just in case the other, like, 17 people in the world who have it are looking for a place congregate online. Treatments are all still basically experimental, since there’s not many of us to test, but they do exist. Anyway, weird mutants unite! Or something.

With my two bad ankles and the long illness of feverish weirdness, I’ve been watching a lot of movies as I’m not much good for anything else lately. Tonight I watched “Bright Star” about John Keats, and I remembered how his poem “When I have fears that I may ceased to be” echoed in my brain when I was in the hospital with pneumonia last year. The fear of all poets, that they will die before they write everything they are supposed to write? And his fear was warranted; he was unthinkably young, only 25, when he died.

Ha! This post is too morbid. Just like my poem warned in MARGIE!