I met with Dr. Mitchel Spahn today, the medical coordinator for Memorial Hospital here in London. It'd been a meeting I'd been putting off, but I'm confident now that I'm perfectly capable of taking over where this previous self left off. I saw his office, the degrees on the walls impressive and all marked with my name. While I have no formal education in obstetrics, I'm provided an extensive library on the study and have already begun to learn.
Due to a recent yachting accident, I've found it convenient feigning a mild concussion to explain my trouble remembering things that I should in my new peer's opinions. While it's not foolproof, it will carry me long enough. At my advancing age, it's not unheard of to have moments where a term or the details of the use of a machine slip one's mind, another justification for my strange behaviors that I'm holding close.
I'm optimistic about this Oz. Without a reputation, I'm afforded a chance to review my mistakes and not make them a second time, and after a look at the morning papers, I'll have no lack of potential prodigies to take over for me when this disease has finished ravaging my system. Surprisingly, my bouts of nausea have come no more than once a day and I've had no need for oxygen. Pain medications are, unfortunately, a necessary evil, but I will be seeking treatment soon.