Yesterday I finally got in to see my regular General Practitioner.  I've been with her for four years and she is awesome.  One of those doctors who listens to you and reviews your records before you walk in the door.  She knows me well and knows my history and trusts what I tell her.  She treats me as an equal, and knows I don't ever, ever whine.

She looked at every frame of the CT scans, disagreed with their report, told me why, explained why they were wrong and ordered new tests.  And made an appointment for me to see a vascular surgeon that she has faith in.  If she has faith in someone, then so do I.  

She is so good that I would stand on my head if she asked me to.  I feel so blessed to have her as my doctor.  Especially at my age when most medical experts look at my age and figure I should already have checked out of here.

But I'm going strong.  Finished the second book.  Started the third.  I was cleaning out paper from a million years ago and found something I had written in the 70's about Ken.  I don't remember writing it.  But he had to be sitting there telling me things.  There are 60 pages of names, facts, experiences, planes he flew, etc. etc.  I was shocked.

So I sat down at my Mac and started writing. Back in 1946 when he began his senior year (I didn't know him) I did 7 chapters in seven days.  Things I had heard about Ken flowed from my brain and my fingers.  I had to make up fictional dialogue to hold everything but the truth is in there.

I thank God every day I can think. (My mom had Alzheimer's   I thank God everyday that I have no (NO) arthritis in my fingers and hands so that I can type--most older people can hardly pick something up because of the pain.