I turned 37 (in a row!? nsfw) on the 13th, but I feel like 50. Medical bills are adding up, and my body is subtracting. It doesn’t seem to matter how much weight I lose (70 pounds since February), my body still rebels against me.
I know that I shouldn’t kvetch, but I’m a Jew and that’s my birthright.
To summarize: my ins is refusing to cover 2 meds that they used to, without which I will die. My endocrine system is fucked. I have a toothache, and I can’t find a dentist that takes my ins. I injured my knee swimming in November and was misdiagnosed. Now I have to go in for an MRI to search for ligament damage. I’m severely bipolar, with anxiety and panic attacks that induce vomiting. I have asthma. I have sleep apnea, but the cpap machine causes panic attacks (having to rip off the mask to throw up is not pleasant. I have the beginnings of Barret’s esophagus (which will eventually cause esophageal cancer, one of the most lethal cancers). My left foot sometimes goes numb, and I have a B12 deficiency.
Many of these things I’ve lived with all my life, and I have come to terms with. I was diagnosed with Bipolar syndrome by age 14. They put me on Lithium, which I think damaged my endocrine system. I always had asthma. Everything else is a brand new fucking experience.
This is why I throw myself into my writing. This is why I aim for a book a year. I want to leave something behind when I die, something that people can enjoy, that will live on beyond me. But one book isn’t enough. Ten might not be enough. I will never be satisfied with what I’ve done, and I feel like I have a short while to do it.
Valerie died when she was 35. She was a brilliant writer, with who knows how many great stories still left inside of her. She was working on her 3rd novel when she died, and it will remain unfinished. I keep putting off publishing her anthology because I am selfish and driven. I keep saying “when I finish this chapter, or this book, or whatever.” One day I am going to die and I hope that it’s not before I get her shit together. Her work means more to me than my own, so why do I keep putting it off?
No matter how much I may want to, I am not ready to join her yet. I have miles to go before I sleep.
