I spent Thursday at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (or in the car more truthfully) for my annual neurology physical. On Friday, I felt like crying.
It wasn't their fault. If anyone is at fault, it's me.
I didn't expect them to say: "Matt, we have this guaranteed cure we have just been waiting house. Are you ready to walk?"
That would have been awesome, for sure -- so would a pony.
It hit me when I was glancing at the followup instructions. They were mostly generic. Last year, I had these big plans to get a new chair, a lift, PT. The year before that was hearing aids, which I did last year, too.
The neurologist did tell me my heart isn't bad, so that was nice to hear. I'll survive, I imagine.
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