August 8, 2021:

Which really is moot, anyway.

She wants me off the Adderall. Speed Nazi: "No speed for you!"

Not that I've been bad. It's really all about the history of my vitals while crews and carts and alarms swirled around the ER, offering talk of infections and surgeries and generally implying impending doom. It turns out that at that time my heart rate was elevated. Shocking!

So she wants me off the uppers, and this means, in all probability, an exchange of symptoms. There'll once again be twenty-five simultaneous instances of my own voice in my head, but I'll once again be able to speak.

This is all so much easier when not involved with the decision.