Facing Chronic

The thirteenth Doctor concurred with nine of the others… “Get your affairs in order, apply for disability, consider getting a cat.” After which she noted, as most of them do, “You know this syndrome usually affects women, in fact 90% of the time” – my eyes roll inadvertently, i don’t care if she notices. She sends me along with assurances that the extensively-noted side “benefits” of the basket of prescriptions “don’t happen to everyone after all.” Ugh. I am toxic and confused.

Walking to a borrowed home, I rest on every bench, imagining my one-life revolving around reruns of M*A*S*H at 6 and 6:30, Hogan’s Heroes at 8PM. Maybe I’ll start watching that show called Seinfeld I missed in the 90s. Was that the 90s? I count years backwards to figure: there was the Japanese sojourn, the time in Micronesia, grape picking in Germany, hitchhiking Australia…”

I see myself all in reflections: I stoop, I am slow, I resist definition but must acknowledge a choice… I can “sit still” or I can “run away”. Ergo: burn out or fade away. So, I write a will (for the first time) and buy a one-way ticket to a distant city I’ve know nothing about.