The Intruder

Every time I start a new project, usually something I have waited a very long time to try and do I inevitably get hit with something unexpected. You would think I would be used to it by now, this disruption that ceases my current activity. It really happens every time. I am never prepared, never aware enough of my surroundings to see it coming, never prepared enough to know how to stop it. It comes, it comes not sneaking in or with trepidation, but rather stomping, hard, loud, invasive intrusive pounding leaps and bounds as if it were announcing, "Hey, Asshole! I'm here!"
I have pneumonia, not just any pneumonia but a great body wracking, strength sapping illness that causes me to hack up great gobs of thickened bright red blood. I have fought this new intrusion differently than I have before when something tries to steal from me. I will tell you that I can tolerate most anything, being of a mind to not pay attention to uninteresting signs of failing health. I HATE BEING STOLEN FROM! I will tackle you to the ground and break everything my hands can get a hold of, if you steal from me. It's my thing, the act that makes me crazy, the idea that turns my face red, head pounding filling with a bloody rage, this stealing thing. I will give you the shirt off my back if you ask for it, but if you try ad take it without permission, well, my friend, I will warn you at that precise moment you are no longer human to me.
This illness, this intrusion that has caused me such great grief in the last few weeks, and has stolen a few things from me and now I am pissed. It stole my ability to think for several days, it stole all of my energy, leaving me crippled and laying in a heap on our couch. It began to steal my confidence and competence, when a sudden surge of anger, welled up in me and I decided that the sneaky little bastard was going to have to go. I had had enough of this thing taking over my somewhat small, somewhat insignificant life and I was going to kick it's ass if I had to , but nobody or nothing was going to take me out without a fight.
The blood, the great splatter paintings I was producing was freaking my ass out! I had never thought I would bleed publicly, out in the open like that with no control or ability to contain it. This undermined my personality making me feel afraid and anxious. I was terrified to cough. I was afraid to sneeze or burp or move my head or chest in a way that might anger the beast, encouraging it's wrath to push up more blood. I felt feeble, weak and taken. Then I felt pissed!
"You can die from pneumonia..." one well wisher told me. "Yes, thanks for the heads up, I am aware," I thought in my head. It can be a killer, there is no doubt. My childhood hero Jim Henson died of pneumonia. I have never forgotten it. I had thought him invincible, driven and maybe even a little mad. I thought his genius would protect him from something so common. I was not at all that surprised at my diagnosis, but I was shocked as hell at his. I am common, living my small life in the biggest way I can. My only bigness comes because I am inclusive, but the truth be told if I died tomorrow very few people would even know let alone feel it. Where some might rely on others to determine their legacy, define their life, I got over that the first time I died. My full arrest, ceasing to exist at 28 taught me that indeed you are born alone and that is the way you go out. I have not carried any delusion about that for a very long time.
I will tell you that this time, my illness, my intrusion, my all out pain in the assness, came at a time when it would have been easier to quit my outside activities than try and mend around them. It would have been easier to give in to it than fight my way out of it. Nothing I have going on is so very important, so very imperative so very life changing that if I quit and no longer showed up anyone else's life would change...but mine.
Today I did my hair. Don't judge me, it's the first day I haven't wanted to wear my pajamas out in public or just stay home curled in the fetal position feeling sorry for myself. I put on makeup, splashed on some perfume and flipped my lungs the bird.
I could have quit things, spent my time recovering, allowed the intruder to take control. This time my anger at the utter inconvenience of the intruder is keeping me on my feet. I am allowing myself to feel the gamut of emotions that comes from having another close call. This time I'm allowing myself to be a little pissed off that I am being bothered. This freedom of emotion, this loose flowing of feeling is liberating. It has caused me to be more buoyant, than begrudgingly slogging through like I would have done and have done many, many times. I haven't quit or cut back on a single thing, and I have no intention to do so. If any more intrusions come along, I will be sure to tell them that I am very busy and can't be bothered with them. Oh and they can kiss my big fat stretched marked ass.