Lately, I feel as if I’m dissolving.
This morning, I recalled the plot of a story, and couldn’t remember if I’d written it, or read it as someone else’s work. (I still don’t know, as of this writing.) That’s literally the first time I’ve ever done that. I used to be able to recount the title and plot of every story I’d ever published, hundreds, but it’s been a long time since I had even that much grasp on my own memory. But this type of confusion? This was new.
Also this morning, my liver pain is back. I suspect it’s never left me, but has been subsumed into the surgical recovery process and that nagging knot of pain in my rib. I suppose in a sense this is a good thing, as it means that the other pains have receded enough for me to notice the difference.
This entire week, I have been off. Substantially fatigued, easily further tired by much activity, mentally vague much of the time. Uncharacteristically petty of emotion and quick of temper, though I’ve mostly managed to keep my trap shut at those little surges. There’s the small, persistent cough. There’s the rib pain. There’s the declining appetite. Both Lisa Costello and Dad have been worried about me.
Every bit of this is reasonably consistent with the intersection of post-operative recovery and me entering my terminal decline with the advance of my cancer. Like I said, I feel as if I’m dissolving. Bits of me are growing weaker and thinner, or vanishing altogether.
This is what dying means from the inside. Not some big, dramatic personal Götterdämmerung. Not some noble, long-suffering, Hallmark Movie of the Week struggle complete with sappy occasional music to cue the tears. Just a slow dissolution, slipping over the horizon. A quietly frustrating fade to black.
I dissolve, wishing it were otherwise.