This resulted in a terrifying assessment of my scarred lungs which upped the hysteria quotient and led to even more CT scans. Words like "lung cancer" were whispered. Every scan was accompanied by the dreaded pink "STAT" paper than meant my scans went right to the top of the pile for interpretation. After all, death was imminent.
And then, finally, I saw a specialist who actually knew what lung cancer looked like, and he said, "no." I don't have it. Never had it. And with any luck, won't get it. I have scars from 15-round bouts with heavyweight pneumonia and a passing exposure to a bit of TB, but that's it. Oh there's a wonky lymph node in there, too, but I feel as if the danger is past. Whew. Life restored. Carry on.
Then we have the economic difficulties visited upon me by corporate America. They/it/he are reducing my hours to 30 a week--enough to keep my insurance. Thank God. You never know when hysteria may send the medical community looking into my gizzard or phlanges or something, after all.
It goes without saying that a 25% cut in income accompanies the cut in hours. Which is, of course, both blessing and curse. The freedom to write and the challenge of the blank screen hold hands and dance around me. The need to generate revenue makes me think I need to freelance. And the little house by the little lake calls to me, "come wade the shore, sit on the porch, listen to the silence and the breeze in the palms."
Life is a topsy-turvy adventure. Especially in October.
