My bad. Last month, I dilly-dallied about making an appointment for the next Remicade infusion. I continued to dilly-dally into this month, even until the week when I ought to have had it. By then, there were no openings in the schedule until the end of September, which is now. Nearly three weeks late; to put it another way, not much less than half the recommended time between doses. Years ago, I could go for thirteen weeks between infusions, but those days are over.

For the past week and more, I have been feeling tired and unwell. My colon has been increasingly unruly. My hips and quads ached on the smallest errands, and my shoulders ached for no reason at all. How much of that was heart disease; how much of it was fallapart, or some as-yet undiagnosed malady; and how much was attributable to the depletion of Remicade? I’ve been taking Remicade for more than fourteen years — a very long run. That it should still be effective at all is somewhat miraculous. The silver lining of an overdue Remicade infusion is the opportunity to see how well the drug deals with any of these wearying issues.

The infusion was scheduled for tomorrow, but the Infusion Unit called this morning to ask if I could come in today. They had had an unusual number of cancellations, whereas tomorrow’s schedule was packed. Much as I was looking forward to a day of staying home, I liked even better the idea of staying home tomorrow, with the infusion behind me. I even showed up a half-hour sooner than I said I would, and they took me right away. That was at about 2:45. By 5:15, I was walking up 71st Street to get a taxi; it was one of the quickest procedures ever.

Now we’ll see.

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