No, Tess, What the hell is *really* going on?

 
For the past three years and the last year particularly, the activity at deninet and my creative output has dwindled. I've whined about it, justified it, unjustified it, and reasoned with it to no avail. So what in the hell is going on? Ever since I was a little kid, I understood I had a rather uncommon medical problem. Treatment was available, but at the time impossible. My Mother did not trust doctors and I went untreated for most of my life. Coverage was possible, but difficult. Even so, at the age of nine I set my mind toward what I hoped to be a better life through modern medicine. In the last three years I've been under enormous personal and professional pressure. While building a career in the IT field, I saved whatever money I could in order fulfill my ambition. I began exercising regularly, then damn near excessively. I dieted. I lost weight. I jumped through all the other hoops placed in front of me -- all to reach the final goal. Surgery. Surgery is a stressor in it's own right. First it's an abstract appointment consisting of doctors, locations, and costs. Then all to quickly it becomes frighteningly real. Flights need to be booked. Calls exchanged. Schedules drawn up to the hour. Money changes hands. Doctors are seen to assure your safety. When it's not a flurry of activity, it's a grinding, intolerable wait. I found myself wanting it to be fucking over already. You hear stories about how many brain cells die for each minute of anaesthesia. And then, I'm in a hospital gown, fitted with sensors and tubes, splayed on a stainless steel table in a sterile room. I stare upward at the OR lights... ...and find them replaced with the low florescence of your hospital room. I struggled for consciousness, clarity. I ran through a quick list of cognitive and acuity tests. After a few minutes I was sure I was fine, if exhausted and drowsy with pain medication. That was six days ago. I was discharged on Monday after a very long weekend. Since then I've been recovering at a local guest house, watching far more television, and engaging in more hours of unproductivity than I otherwise would prefer. Being away from home, it's a bit like sick leave and a bit like vacation. The physical scares aren't then only ones healing.