When I was a tot, my Mother described me with the words, “There’s no in-between with Mark. He’ll either be a priest or in prison.” Well. As a man I can firmly state: there is no in-between with Mark. What I want, I want. I stick to my chosens.
An aspect of congestive heart failure I abhor (and by Christ there are many) - I don’t have good things to choose between. Monday I noticed that my left leg was swollen and my right leg was not. So I resumed taking Furosemide to get the excess fluid out of my body.
Last night I saw my leg remained swollen (the swelling does decrease at night) and I decided to make an appointment with my internist. This afternoon: 3:40
Blood clot? or My heart function has decreased?
I don’t like those choices.
Well okay, I don’t have a choice. But I can choose my hope.
Lately, I have made a choice.
I’ve chosen to write again.
Most mornings while I run my errands, I chat with one of my closest friends who lives the farthest away. We exchange news, bitch, and laugh.
Today I told her that my impetus for writing has changed. I’m not looking to create change anymore. And I’m not hoping for cash. I just want my words in the air. I want a legacy. I’m now two years into my ten to fifteen sentence.
Two thoughts consistently fuck my mind:
A Confederacy of Dunces. I’m not suicidal but I enjoy the notion of discovery even after death.
O’Henry’s “The Last Leaf.” In my head, I’m not the girl; I’m the artist.
So. This afternoon. I’m hoping blood clot. I’d rather add a pill than remove time.