Like a snake, death coiled itself around me, suffocating me in its grip.
The dreaded symptoms began with the summer. I experienced a debilitation that defied conventional treatment, winding up in the emergency room. Though the doctors and nurses were angels, my stay in the hospital during July was a nightmare from hell. Does it matter what this calamitous condition was? No; for everyone has faced similar challenges, or will, when life becomes fragile, and elusive. And you ask yourself: How unjust can my death be?
Four weeks remained for the publication of a memoir upon which I’d been working five years. Last fall I wrote a thriller to publish after the memoir. And I’d begun a second romantic thriller, half way completed, that had claimed my heart, for this writer falls in love with his characters and lives to tell their story. More vivid than life are these people who do the dance between horror and love, totally consumed by their passions. I live to tell their story—to breathe life into them.
And death. I speak of a time when life is unbearable, when death offers the silken hand of comfort, the cool fingers stroking the fevered brow, whispering in your ear—PERMANENT relief—to a willing heart caught in the agony of the moment, without a past, without a future, only the agony of the moment, and you know the sudden devastating pain of leaving someone you love, as your chances of survival are dwindling.
And your work is for nothing. My bitterness is without bottom; the sense of injustice too profound: the world has no symmetry. My work is for nothing.
But I survived. Dazed, vaguely disoriented, facing what seems a towering responsibility of work, I am here. My spirit lives. So, I shall:
…1] Publish the memoir and then the thriller;
…2] Complete my Romance; and
…3] Be happy.