The knifes to my throat— a little severe— but the case is on. I suppose my throat won’t be split, of course my esophagus could be collapsed, but that sounds like a fatality waiting to happen. My knife, without the metaphor, I suppose represents my hand. I’m waiting now. Waiting for the summer. It’s simple really. I wait for them to call. I get an appointment. I wait for my appointment. I go to my appointment. I get tested. I wait again. I get the results. I know if I’m dying. It’s nerve racking not to know. To look at careers I might be interested in knowing I may not get to have a career. Friedreich’s Ataxia may be my future while everyone I know becomes doctors, lawyers, actors, writers, pilots, and so on. I can’t openly tell anyone this, that I’m scared. Once they know they get emotional and feel pity for me. I don’t want it. Take me off your prayer list and out of your thoughts. I’m not a charity case. I’m too independent for those setbacks. That is exactly why I’m scared though. I’m too independent. I don’t want to slowly die and be confined to a chair, to burden everyone and make them take care of me. No, I refuse. I decided a long time ago if I’m positive, if Mr. Friedreich wants to tango with me, I’ll do the salsa, I’ll cha-cha slide right out and laugh while I do. I can’t tell them that though. Well, I suppose I could, If I told them i was going to salsa with Mr. Friedreich they would assume I meant face him. No, I’m not that helpless. I’ll die on my own, before he takes me. I’ll stand him up in a very convenient way. Before we meet, before he has a chance to step on my toes.