Needles; Horary; boat horns

A good acupuncture treatment today. Since I'm going to be performing The Last Official Acts as a member of the high-school faculty tomorrow (the Last Meeting, the Last Grade Submission, that sort of thing), he gave me a treatment called "horary" that's specifically designed to metaphorically (and energetically) "blow the dust out of the fire" so that the Fire can burn better—something that he hopes will help me bid farewell to the bits of the school to which I need to bid farewell. I've been horary'ed several times before, it's always a good treatment. Even though, as Eustace said in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, one of the points "hurts like billy-oh". That's the polite words for how much they hurt. But, even seconds after he connects to the point with the needle, I can tell that it's gonna do something great. Always has, before... I'm looking forward to having my Fire refreshed.

Before I got needled, I dumped a stack of EDD and insurance forms on my doctor's desk. So that part of the procedure is about to get under way. I still have to call another company and get them to send me their forms, but soon I'll be in the hands of The Insurance People. We'll see what happens... odd that I'd say with such surety, "I am disabled, y'know... it shouldn't be that much trouble to process this," but there you are.

My doctor also told me that trouble remembering names, something that has been plaguing me a lot this year, is actually quite common with M.S.ers. He even told me where on the corpus collosum that the scleroses form, which when they do, specifically zap ability to remember names. The good news is (if you want to call it that), that it's absolutely no indication of disease progression, of things "worsening;" it just falls into the "that stuff just happens—commonly" category of disease "extras."

Weird stuff, I still remember. Lug nuts on a Hinger timpanum: 11/32nds. 1815 was the year that valves in brass instruments began to be introduced. The organ stop "tuba mirabilis" was invented by English organ builder Robert Hope-Jones, and was based on—of all things—a boat horn. But people's names? Those, I lose.

And that's "normal."

You see why I think that M.S. is, too often... just plain funny.