Life Implodes?

Things can go the way of the pear so easily. For a while I thought everything was panning out perfectly. I'd found a publisher for my 3rd collection of poetry and was excited because they seemed like they would be a lot more professional than Bluechrome, my last publisher, who had let me down big-time. But then things fell through with the new publisher. Long story, not worth repeating here.

It was a bit of a blow. So near and yet so far. And the end result was that I slumped into a huge depression.

But what was worse was that a day after something went ka-bam in my head. For those that know my story, you'll know what I mean. For those that don't, I should explain. Six and a half year back, I had a brain haemorrhage and nearly died. Since then, I've been living on borrowed time.

Since last Friday, I have had a constant throbbing headache, way too reminiscent of the one I had back in 2001.

So, that's five days I've had it now. It ain't been like that since 2001. And now - despite my resolve to live till I'm a nonagenarian - I am frightened that the time I have left on this Earth is limited, that I might die soon. Too soon.

Today I went to the hospital, after my doctor said she hadn't sufficient expertise to diagnose accurately. I spent several hours in the hospital, being treated like so much infected meat, until I finally had had enough. I insisted on discharging myself, despite being none the wiser about my condition. It was a horrible experience. Hospitals are shit. They are so user-unfriendly it's untrue. I'm telling you, I could rant and rave for hours about how shit they are.

So, now I am back home and I am dosed up on Cuprofen, Brandy and my dad's Temazepam... and, straight up, I am frightened that my number is up, that I am reaching towards my death.

The head is still sore, despite the pain killers, the booze and the sleeping pills. I am still awake, though slightly drugged up; and I am wondering, how much longer I am going to be granted life. How much longer? It seems really shit that I am going to die in my mid-forties. Really fucking shit! There is so much more I wanted to do with my life. There are a hundred short stories I want to write, at least ten novels too, not to mention the poetry and the music that I've recently got into.

Right now, I'm working on a novel too. It is about a man and his attempt to cope with being a father after his ex-wife commits suicide. I'll be so fucked off if I die before I finish it. It would be a cunt... and it would just be especially ironic if I ended up dying and my partner had to bring up our child alone.

Jesus, life is so frail. It's like standing on a thin skin of ice. Walk off in the wrong direction and the ice suddenly gives and then you are drowning in freezing water.

Bummer to die in my mid-forties. Not fair at all. But no more unfair than with all the other people who died before they've reached a ripe old age.

I hope to fuck I live to survive this, to be embarrassed by my hypochondria. But it is hypochondria, when you've had a brain haemorrhage, to worry because you've had a headache for five whole days without let up? I'd argue it ain't. Five days! Man, this is shit. I don't want to die.