A Cloud of Bats

         I continue moving the last of my things from the old apartment. It’s amazing how even when there seems to be nothing left, there’s always some little cache of crap you forgot. It feels never ending but I plod along, trying to ignore the dark thoughts that swirl like a cloud of bats around my head.

        The company handling my transition into paying for my own insurance is not returning my calls or emails. They cheerfully processed my payment, but the money hasn’t been sent to the hospital yet, and I remain uninsured. It’s extremely nerve-wracking. Just keep calling, everyone says. They’re just doing their job, and their job is to make your life miserable. I hope they rot in hell.

        It’s been ten days since I’ve been in the chamber. It feels like years. Shelley called today to see if I was coming in Monday. I was ridiculously happy to hear her gravely voice. I explained the situation and started to cry. She said not to worry, that the oxygen takes a long time to work its way out of my system and that they’ll hold my place for me. She says KC was just saying when my treatment is over, that we should all go out and get a drink. I’m so touched by this that I start to cry again. After all, are they not my family? Is the wound care clinic not my home? 

        Back at my other home, I spend the morning carrying every painting I’ve ever made, at least the ones that are too large for boxes. The emotional upheaval brought up by this feels violent and probably not good for me, but these fucking things have to be moved. I throw out a few of the unfinished ones I know I’ll never get to. I feel guilty giving up on them but there’s only so much room, only so much time. I can’t wait until I no longer have to navigate the labyrinth of my possessions, can’t wait until everything is packed away and in its place, and I can go on with my life, such as it is. 

        I know I brought this on myself; the move was my choice, was my attempt to seize control and be assertive. But this is so hard. I feel wrung out and frightened at how fragile my situation really is. My entire life is here, these drawings and paintings and photographs the only evidence that I existed, and you could fit it all into a good sized dumpster.