I have enough wrong with me that I’ve needed to come to terms with the fact I’m not one of those people who will live long. This isn’t about drama. I’m not asking for pity. I’m giving myself 20 years. I’m prepared for less.

Initially, I met this fact with resentment, hostility, righteous anger, and a lot of ranting at the heavens. Slowly, I’ve learned to just let go. There’s no medical cure for what I have, and I’m adding more illnesses to the list. My medical bills are staggering. It’s not right; it is what it is.

My anger hasn’t gone away. Especially, as my illness is caused by medical malpractice. It’s a long story and I won’t share it today.

Patience is not my friend. It’s a highly overrated trait we keep praising each other for. I don’t have it. I don’t like it. Evidently, and the irony is not lost on me, I need it. Of course I would need it. Sneaky little shit.

Acceptance isn’t my forte, either, but I do it and I know how to not resent it. My acceptance of the fact I’m not going to age particularly well or happily is met with violent discomfort. I accept it anyway.

There’s no moral of the story. I’m not suggesting you should do this as well, because it is truly a monster. Watching bodies and minds declining isn’t fun. For anyone. It’s especially not fun for me. I write this because it’s a big deal for me to put this out there and I’m enjoying this new me. That said, health is paramount, people. Don’t sacrifice it. For anyone or anything. That much I can say with certainty.