V. H. King's Ink

The idea for Vengeful Spirits came along in summer of 2022, but it’s taken me until this year to post it.  The story is the first on my site since late September, and—well, there’s a reason for that.  The last three and a half months have been full of surprises, disappointments, anxiety, community, crisis, and care.  It’s been one heck of a ride—and it’s not over yet. 

If you’ve read any of the posts on the VALT page, (which also hasn’t seen any updates in quite some time), I’ve known my health was deteriorating for a while.  Say, the last eight years, minimum.  Turns out, that’s how long a tumor has been growing in the middle of my brain.  Maybe even an entire decade. Would removing the tumor help with the symptoms I’ve been trying to explain to various doctors for half a dozen years?  That was certainly the hope, but there are no guarantees. By the time this post is live, I’ll (hopefully) be almost a month post-op. And as has been said to me at every turn: only time will tell.

If things stay the same, I will wake up feeling like I’ve just gotten run over by a train—with another one barreling down the tracks, and no time to get out of the way. Personally, I wouldn’t mind if that wasn’t the case every day of the week.  I would love to write and read and paint regularly.  Even if “regularly” means a few hours once a week, it would be better than the debilitating fatigue that has compounded over the last several years. 

I miss my art. 

I miss my creativity. 

I miss being able to share my stories.

After surgery, I will have 6 weeks to rest and recover.  In all honesty, it doesn’t feel like enough.  I’ve yet to find a medical professional able and willing to evaluate me for disability—and it’s certainly not for a lack of trying.  Maybe the social norm is to start a new year with great plans and big dreams.  Me, I’m left putting things on pause until further notice. 

Work, insurance, housing, hobbies—everything is up in the air, with little chance of things stacking neatly into place when gravity whiplashes into effect again.  While I’ve tried to prepare as much as possible, the information I’ve received has been limited, ambiguous, incomplete, and otherwise…unhelpful.  I’ve done the most I can. I’ve pushed myself at every turn to figure out how to best prepare for various scenarios—while also managing whatever latest crisis arises with scheduling appointments, symptom flares, and the not-so-simple tasks of my everyday life. 

I barely eat. 

I rarely sleep. 

I can’t focus or concentrate on much of anything without it contributing to a continual spiral of less than bare-minimum functioning.  That’s not complaining: it’s a stark reality.  So, by the time you read this, I’ll have been through the ringer and then some. But maybe, by the time you read this, I’ll also have had a procedure that (hopefully?!) will significantly alleviate my symptoms.  Perhaps, by powers beyond me, I can afford an extended recovery.  Maybe, just maybe, I will even be able to take a break from working to determine my baseline capacity instead of being forced to constantly push beyond it. 

What does an accessible life look like for me? 

I’ve forgotten to dream of that, lately. 

But here’s to hoping.