The crap storm that is my health has made my practice and self-identification as a writer rather a thing of the past of late. Not only has it affected my books, it has also waylaid my intention to be a better blogger and post at least one entry each week. Too, having lost everything I'd written (five chapters) of Beyond The Bridge's Book Three, With A Song, I was knocked to my knees with the thought of having to start all over. Energy is still at a premium, but things appear to be looking up.
After a terrified run to the hospital emergency room last Saturday evening due to hypertension spikes that reached up to 173/98, I was given a series of tests, which all came back fine. But that's chronic autoimmune disease for you. I could have told the doctors my heart and brain were fine and saved myself the bill. But ER doctors know nothing about this disease...
My antibodies have jumped from organ-to-organ as is their wont, and are now attacking my kidneys, causing edema, swelling and erratic high blood pressure patterns. But that's not the point of this entry. Thankfully, I've been put on diuretics, which seem to be helping with the symptoms. I slowly feel some energy returning, but every day is a new day; I've learned not to lean on false patterns. In bed one day, I'm out doing my gardening the next followed by a day of lethargy, then I'm up again. I've learned that I can't count on anything; my body has become an unreliable source of information about just how I should treat it. The real problem is that my antibodies perceive a threat where there is none, and they go on the defensive, attacking organs that are just fine. So far. Untreated, these attacks will simply destroy those organs. And sense I have no healthcare insurance, I go untreated. I need to see an endocrinologist, but they won't even allow an uninsured patient make an appointment, although in time I could save up enough cash to pay them up front.
Sorry, Charlie. This is America, Inc. and if you don't work, you don't matter. Oh, and only we go back five years into your work history to determine if you deserve the Social Security Disability Insurance you paid into all of your adult life. We took one full day's pay out of every week you worked and we have no intention of giving it back. So just die already, will you? Get out of the fucking way and make room for a new drone to take your place. We'll put your money to good use waging war over oil and buying our CEOs their 4th vacation home.
But this being said, I'm happy to report that I'm beginning to feel the itch to plunge myself into Book Three once again. I've even gotten some ideas of how to make it better than the now lost first draft. I'm also making a pledge to myself to post an entry here once a week. No scheduled day, no set word count, no pressure. Just blogging as I used to enjoy it.
As in times past when the arts and personal creativity were bound and gagged and threatened to be starved into extinction, I feel the need to create more strongly. I need to leave something behind, something that says I rebelled against this automaton revolution. Whether I survive or not isn't that important to me, but leaving my words and music is.
21 of 31: Evil Dead (2013)
6 hours ago