Next week Friday, I have to see a labour specialist (and I say that lightly - it's a light-weight study).
This person will see what work I can do.
Never mind the company doctor, never mind all those physical and psychiatric tests that said I'm actually 100% sick.
Never mind all medical tests still running, immunologist visits and a rehab centre in my near future.
This person will sort it out (in favour of the university, who hired him/her).
Dutch labour law is a condescending misery.
I try to forget that this lies in wait like a tiger, but it's hard.
I so badly want for everything to be magically better - a lovely job, strong body, harmonious relationships.
This is a springboard to better things, I feel it.
I feel quite Pippi Longstocking-ly about it:
I'm losing weight again, a bit too fast.
Son#3 who was sent home last week with the how manieth pair of wet pants, only went back to school now, so I could watch sad episodes this morning, of Dr Phil instead of Dora; Homes under the Hammer instead of Paw Patrol.
It felt good to waste time.
I study when I can, and that's going well.
The husband is going to a fraternity weekend in Maastricht, and Son#1's friend Senna is coming for a sleep-over.
Taking it nice and easy.