In this moment I can see a beginning. The rest of my life starts here. It is not set in the context of daily problems or expectations. If I stay in this moment, I can write anything.
Step out of this moment and I’m the “brain patient,” the mom who hasn’t been fully there since last November. My teens have stepped up to help–to parent themselves. My husband has tolerated the destruction of our bank account, our lives–to keep me alive. And I know what a ridiculous dream this writing is. I can see the futility of submitting short stories or thinking I can write another book. What do I have to say?
Waiting to see the next specialist is like waiting at a stinky, decrepid bus station. I’d like to think that the bus will pull in, clean and modern, and it will transport me to a new diagnosis, a way of overcoming or even just managing the strange sensations in my head. The bus might take me past the fear that the next “brain reset” will be the end–my end. That I will turn off like a light switch.
And I know I should be doing something more to pull my family out of this financial ditch. Like work more–but then I get dizzy, sick, end up calling in. So I work part-time, reduce stress, try to avoid driving. I should clean the house more, but then my brain swells, I end up calling in sick. So I do the simple stuff, like the dishes and straighten up. I feel so useless.
And the only thing that helps me see a rest-of-my-life … is writing. I’ll write as long as there’s a future in it. Mine.
(For more about my brain tumor battle, go to “Posts About Acoustic Neuroma, Brain Surgery.)Anything below this is an ad.)