What happened? Well, first I didn't die as I was told could have been the outcome; so as it is, i have an amusing story to tell. And to interject, it will be my Nanowrimo project this November.
I was in pain. Every movement, every bit of food and drink i put in my mouth resulted in horrific pain. The kind of pain that felt like a corset was being tightened by a dominatrix someone paid to ensure my organs were squished up. All my bits and pieces worked and in fact, blood and urine kept reading that functionality was normal. But by every standard, I certainly wasn't.
My diet devolved into chicken wings and beer once a day and on the occassion I consumed anything with nutritional value, my body was a mass of overactive nerve endings. I was essentially a crying mess. In this process, I discovered crying only made my face wet. It did not alleviate any of the pain. A neighbor called the medics and i was taken to a hospital where absurdity ensued. Transfered to another hospital where i'm pretty sure i was admitted to the psychiatric ward, but provided a bed to rest and two IV's in my arm. My liquid diet was no longer one laden with an alcoholic numb. Morphine helped at first, but i was content with lying in an electric bed with the pain, beleiveing if i had an episode with the alien setting up shop inside me and consuming my organs one by one, the doctors would send in orderlies to sweep up the mess and sew up my belly.
No food or drink at all. That's okay. I did not eat comfortably for a year. I literally had nothing but a soft pretzel for three days before and my body was clearly not happy with its consumption.
So this story that occurs - Life happens in between all the things we're trying to get done. The actual doing part of living. We figure out what makes us shine in strength and what dulls us to the point of anonymity. I suppose my body kicked my ass, yelling at me to stop being dull. And there are a select few who will protest that one thing i'm not is dull. But truely, i am. I am nothing but a tool through which a story is told.
I could have died. And with each episode of extreme hardship and near death experience, I do refocus on bringing something bigger than myself to this world. For me, all i have is my ability to group together words. I not dead, so i have another story to tell.
I finished revising Sevy recently and just this morning i sent it to print once again. I'm going to digress back to Matson and the Clowns. (Matson exhausts me. The clowns are much easier although frightening.)
Above all else, if you've gotten to this sentene, you're sticking with me to see how the story ends. It's gonna end in dead of course. All true stories do. But, I appreciate your continued interest, regardless of how dull i become.