Today I got good news.
Nothing writing-related, mind you. Life-related. The sort of news that’s supposed to make you kick off your shoes, dance a jig and then scream at the world, “Take that! I’m still here, bitches!”
But it wasn’t. At least not for me. Relief, mostly, but soured with a drop of doubt. I never get quite clear and free from this sort of thing. There are always more tests in another year’s time. The standard ultrasounds, chest x-rays, seasonal blood work requisitions, and now a bone density test thrown in there to make sure the endoskeleton doesn’t get any ideas about going soft. It’s always another year. For followups that were supposed to last only five years after surgery, we’re now in year seven, and I keep wondering if I will ever get to walk away from this and be told, “Your clean. Your family doctor can take it from here.”
I’m a subscriber to my own health, chronically behind, asking the company for a promise-to-pay, an extension, that just keeps getting renewed and renewed, one year at a time. I never get ahead, and that deadline is always looming.
Someone suggested that it must give me a different perspective, a zest for life, that sort of thing. It doesn’t. There’s never a final answer; the one you do get flickers between “not now” and “not yet” depending on your point of view. It’s a gloomy thing, a weight that’s heavy. I normally try my best to not focus on it but sometimes it doesn’t give me the choice, and today was one of those days. Even after the good (and yet “not now”) news. I went to work late because of the appointment and ended up leaving early. If I’d stayed on the phones, if I’d had to listen to just one asshole, I’d have lost it.
The sleep helped. I’m clear-headed. I’m calm. I’m just not bouncing around yet.
I keep waiting to be joyous about the results, but I don’t think it’s coming.
Oh, well. Gotta make your own joy, right?