For over a year I’ve thought I had come to terms with needing a heart transplant. I even anticipated a vast improvement in life’s quality. And on some days, as if the Universe were throwing me a bone, I’d display the symptoms of being excited. The irony, of course, was that I rarely showed such emotion and had grown uncertain whether or not I knew what excitement was.
So here I sit, at my cluttered desk, feeling quite frustrated and anxious, if not even angry. I never really display any symptoms of being angry either, so my demons are usually faced alone.
This afternoon, I realized that I have now spent 391 days waiting… for a determination regarding my “disability”, then to go through endless tests to assess my candidacy for a transplant, and now waiting for a new heart while I am surely decaying and withering. I do, as you expected, wither in private. By “waiting” I also include the uncertainty of whether or not I will survive the wait.
For an obsessive control maven, such as I am, it is excruciating to maintain faith in the unknown. The outcome might influence how I spent time, which is now a matter of waiting and napping.
Providence certainly has an endless cache of torture techniques and accoutrements which, true to form, I ponder by myself.
This painting has always intrigued me. Was it the mythology of Prometheus? Or the success or quality of the painting? Or the mixed color palettes that Monsieur Lair blended?
This afternoon, I realized what the intrigue is. It’s the generous use of fabric.
Such is my life.
(Image: “The Torture of Prometheus” by Jean-Louis-Cesar Lair , 1819.)