Balls of Dough

 <exasperated sigh> My attempts to write about it have produced an indigestible mass of dough-balls, more fit for catfish bait than reading. So here is the deal: I see the vascular surgeon in 90 minutes. He's going to tell me what plan he proposes to keep the right side of my brain alive. I'm distracted, confused, and a little bit worried about how that plan may or may not change my life.

Don't know why I feel compelled to tell the world about all this. Maybe fishing for sympathy. I've never understood the whole, "I don't want your pity," thing. I eat the stuff up. Maybe I just want to feel seen and heard, afraid that somewhere out there, somebody is paying attention to something that isn't me. Or maybe because not being heard feels too much like not being there.

Deep down, there is a part of me that hopes I can do some good in the world by telling my story. That maybe my words will help someone else who is struggling. Because we are all struggling. And we all need help.

Because I want to help.

But right now, I haven't much to offer. I've coped pretty well up till this morning. I've told the story. I've gone about my business. I've accepted the not-knowing and welcomed the love and support of friends. Got my workouts in. Eaten healthy meals. Done the right stuff. My shrink would be proud.

But right now? Shitless. Because of one question. 

What if something happens to my brain, and I have to go on living? 

I don't know how I'd answer that question.

And I'm afraid of what my answer might mean.

For myself, and for you. 

I've rolled enough dough-balls for the time being. It's time to put on clean underwear and drive across town to see the wizard. 

In 45 minutes...

How about that? Suddenly, I really wish I could talk to my dad. 

Guess I'd rather be fishing.