Those of you who know me or have been reading my things for a while know about the ARDS book. I was working at editing some of Denise’s copy and scrolling through Facebook posts this morning while I couldn’t sleep…scaring the hell out of myself in the process.
It’s not an easy read, that series of posts from the 45 days I was in a medically-induced coma. Only went through it once. But it’s necessary that I go through it again, in order to get that part of things ready for the book.
My highwire act also demands that I go through my side of it all too–in fact I get to relive it all so that I can write about it, from the inside. Way inside. I was worried when I started that I’d lose some detail, or be unable to convey the sense of lucid nightmare that I felt.
Not so. Not at all so. In fact I want to get it done, because thinking about it takes me all the way back, before I made the series of mental adjustments that let me continue to exist. Back to the PTSD and the bad craziness of hospital/nursing home existence, back to the self-pity and loss of sense of self-worth and overwhelming depression that have haunted me for the last four years.
I hope, when all is said and done, that I can help someone, the way several people have helped me, with their perspectives and adult reasonable adjustments to terrifying scenarios. And maybe make some inroads toward funding ARDS research, for I still plan to donate 2/3 of the proceeds of the book to that end, if and when I can locate a suitable fund, or concoct a suitable organization.
Data from recent clinicals has it at 20-58%. My pulmonologist says that the data is incomplete, and that the mortality rate is probably still around 70-75%. I don’t know…but the hospital’s personnel told me that I was the second of five victims to survive.
Anyhow, I’m writing out my experiences, and then coupling them with Denise’s blogposts, and then collating that all with life as I know it now…and making a book out of the lot, turning my disability into a mixed blessing, as so many have done before me.
The best things in my life have happened because of writing. Good things happen when I write.
So I write. I write to live in worlds of my own devising, where I don’t have a tube coming out of my nose, where I’m not overcome by floods of depression and anger and self-pity at odd times.
I try not to be a cynic and a misanthrope, and labor mightily not to deal exclusively in apocalypses..but I am honest to a fault, and I won’t sugarcoat things.
I hate the cannula. Is that bad? It characterizes me as a dog tied to a tree. I want to go bite the cars.