This blog isn’t what it started out to be. And I lost a lot of readers because of that. When I got too ill to spend hours reading other’s blogs and commenting, see ya later reciprocal bloggers. I stopped writing about Epee; adios epee obsessed. I didn’t write LGBTQI or feminist stuff anymore (too tired to look at news-servers). And at some point, after losing most of my original readers, I decided that if I had to be sick, I would make it funny; my life as the theatre absurd.
When you have a very small window to the world, the things that crush that window hurt a great deal. I was hurt, I was tired, I had gone outside only four times unaccompanied in two weeks. That makes a person a little…frustrated. Things happened. I reacted. I plan on acting now instead.
So I am giving notice that there will be subtle (or perhaps not so subtle) changes to my writing. I appreciate the comments, I certainly do, but I have a chance to write about SOMETHING, and I’m not going to throw that away because on-line one liners get thousands of hits and I get a couple hundred. Hey, not a lot of people want to think about getting sick and fewer want to read about it. Being sick is taboo in our culture, and so is talking about it. And whatever I have doesn’t appear to be simple. Too bad, life is like that.
Some days I feel I am a monster; Linda said yesterday, “If your workers see you like this no wonder they are scared of you; I’m scared.” But I am still human, just experiencing things many humans don’t. A lot of people have it worse than me. Few of them write about it. I will. You want to know in detail what it is like to die, gasping for breath, a pit of fire in your chest like fire, pain so bad you pray to pass out. I try and tell you, particularly since I don’t die, even on days like Friday when I tried, fighting off the oxygen mask as my arms, then body grew limp. But as Linda so aptly puts it: “I just wait till you pass out and then put the mask on.” Oh, and that thing about how you can’t use your hands to stop the flow of oxygen to your brain to cause brain death because you pass out first: That’s true.
I may post a bit less frequently because I am working on a book. But I’ll try and write well enough that, if you chose, you can follow the whole ride, all the way to death if that is where this is going. Or to a very altered life. If you think I take all this change with grace and good humor, that I don’t want “my life” back (Whatever weird dream that happens to be that minute), you’re wrong. The sad truth is that there are a few life experiences that are almost impossible to replicate in writing. A month ago, the neurologist lead me to believe that I might, if we did enough tests, return to some sort of “normal” life; maybe one using a walker, but one where I am seen as more than Linda’s pet. On Thursday, that was taken away. That night, someone told me, “It’s not how long you live, but how you live your life that is important.” What a nice sentiment, eh? Me sitting up in my apartment sending out blessings or something? Fuckers. No offense, I want to RUN again. I went to a fencing competition AFTER I had been told that exercise pushed my heart to lethal levels; does that sound like a person at peace? Even in my fucking manual chair I push myself; faster, harder, knowing that I am shredding my muscles (think lifting a box of wet cardboard). And when the fever goes down and my muscles mend I go and do it again. There is no plan, no book you get, no inner calm. I am a fighter, so I fight.
There are thousands of people right now facing cancer, disease, disability, waking up in a hospital bed being told their legs won’t work any more, or maybe that a limb has just been amputated. I am sure there are thousands of ways that people find of coping. I will find my way, I will write about it.
End of transmission.
16 hours ago