It has been a little over a week since the official release of Molly’s Song. Having lived with this story in the two years since I wrote the first words, obviously there was some excitement with the day that the story was finally out there for the world to see. It has been replaced with a sense of emptiness. So much of my life was wrapped up in the book that now that it is published, it is like I don’t know what to do with myself. Obviously, there is a sequel in the works, but that is just enough to take the edge off the restlessness I feel. I wonder if other authors feel the same way or if I’m just not right in the head. I mean, I know I ain’t right, but I meant in this specific instance.
My wife starts back to school tomorrow (Monday). Last year was bad. This year will be worse, as no one will have to wear masks and the county where her school is has the lowest vaccination percentage in the whole state. I’ll be back to being crammed into overcrowded classrooms with unmasked adults in a few more weeks. Honestly, I’ve just accepted the fact that I’m going to get sick and there’s nothing I can do about it. That makes it easier to deal with. People think all this is over because they want it to be over. We all want it to be over, but it won’t be unless people take precautions. Instead, we are all going to suffer from their poor decisions and from government officials and school administrators who put politics over the lives of educators and students.
I’m scheduled for a surgery on Sept. 14, but that may not happen since the rapid rise in case counts are causing some hospitals in the area to cancel non-emergent surgeries. I’ve already put this surgery off for 18 months. I don’t want to wait any longer, but I might very well have to wait. The jury is still out on that, or rather, the Rona is still out on that. We’ll see what happens.
I’m turning 43 on Saturday the 14th. My body is 43 in age years but 90 in mileage years. My spine is barely held together. My knees don’t work. My shoulders don’t work and I can’t raise either arm above my head. My intestines don’t work, and I get bowel obstructions. There are days with crippling migraines. I can’t walk very far without stopping to rest. My lungs are heavily scarred. There are days when I can’t get out of the car without help. I’m in pain every second of every day. I no longer remember what it was like to live without horrendous pain. I know we all have our crosses to bear, but there are times when I wonder why mine had to be so heavy. I’m serving a life sentence, held prisoner by my own body.
I truly don’t like talking about my physical condition because no one wants to hear it. I go through great lengths to hide it from people because I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me and I don’t want to be treated like I’m any different than anyone else. I’m a fighter, and this is my own personal war to wage. I’m not going to draft anyone else to fight it for or with me.
I didn’t mean for this post to be so negative, but it is what it is. Sometimes, you just have enough and want to set out your feelings in writing, which I have done here.
Until next time, friends, take care of yourselves. And each other.