“How are you doing? How’s Bamboo doing?”

I can feel the delay, desperately scrambling for a response. A simple question, I should have a pat ready answer, but I don’t. I feel the tumblers in my mind whirring, locking into place, the card-file of my mind sorting itself, waiting for an answer to bubble up. A ready answer slides into place, but it’s for the wrong question — he doesn’t really care. I answer anyway.

“I’m alright, been better. Bamboo’s great though.”

My mind has found the Bamboo file, but it’s six pages thick. I sift through, looking for a tidbit I can throw out there. My gut sinks as I see two more people come around the corner, looking for this status update. Fuck. What was I doing five minutes ago? I just came out here to pee!

“Powershell’s kicking my ass though.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe we should all sit together and look it over?”

This is a good idea. No, it’s a terrible idea. He doesn’t know anything about Powershell. Nobody does except–

“Yeah, I already messaged Pat this morning. Do you know Powershell?”

That was the wrong order of sentences but he takes it in stride.

“Nah, Pat’s the best, and Ray but he’s nights.”

“Yeah, I sent him an email. I can’t get more information about the error, it just said it fails to download.”

The sort-and-skim completes; I now have the information I wanted four sentences ago, so I ramble on, dumping info on the trio that’s assembled around me.

“I got [server] and [server] deploying yesterday, we started them up but there were application-level errors. So that’s nothing to do with Bamboo, I handed it off to the appdev teams. I got [server] and [server] working this morning, and [server] will be ready once I finish this last change: it’s got a different directory structure, so I was just trying to handle that, and somehow it blew up with the most generic error ever. So I messaged Pat and I’m still working that.”

I hate every second of the conversation. Didn’t I used to be able to rattle that off up top, instead of the stalling to a halt? What the fuck is wrong with me?

It’s just fibro, I tell myself. Calm down. It’s just my brain deteriorating under the effects of a chronic disease I’ll be struggling against for the rest of my life, it’s just the last bit of my body that I felt I could actually trust when everything goes to shit failing me. No need to panic.


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