I spoke with my friend T last night. I had booked a hotel room in the little town he lives in. I told him that we would come see him this weekend. I said that we would be in town, and if he could see us, that would be nice, and if not, that was fine too. I want to see him, but at this point I realize that I want to see him for me, not for him.
In addition to other things, T has suffered from some mental health issues over the years. Looking back now, those were evident when he was a teenager, too. His mood fluctuated up and down. He has, since, been diagnosed as bipolar. When I called him last night, he started off by saying that he had been intending to send me an email asking me not to come.
He was having some breakthrough pain. He is dying of pancreatic cancer, and breakthrough pain, particularly pain that is hard to control with strong narcotics, is really not a good sign. But T is also someone who gets into his own head too much. He is quite capable of talking himself out of things. He has ample reason to be depressed – he’s in the final months of his life. I say ‘months’ – I’m not doctor, but the rule I remember is that if you’re seeing changes over months, you have months. Over weeks, you have weeks. Over days…
It seems to me that he’s in the weeks stage, but we’re getting close to the stage of days, of final days. He’s still over a hundred pounds, but not by much. Or at least he was last week – this may have changed by now.
This has all disrupted my writing schedule and my flow. I had thought to have my second novel finished by November 1st, but that is not going to happen. As it is, I am at 80,000 of a projected 90,000 words. Close enough to touch, to feel. I spent my allotted writing time this morning in my journal, and I realized that as a result of T’s illness, I am confronting issues of illness, of aging, and of death. I wish it didn’t impact my ability to write fiction, but it does.
And maybe it should.