The counsellor in my life recently suggested that I swear more in public. In hindsight, he’s fucking right.
It’s only October 25, 2022, but it’s fair to say that this year has been the worst of my life. I’ve had some doozies, but never like this. It’s as though The Algea—Greek spirits of pain and suffering—cast a spell on me and my family that cannot be broken.
The beginning of the year saw our middle child suffer a split eyeball from an errant piece of ice. Six surgeries later, the eye is patched up, but he’s still in pain. He will never have 20/20 vision again. The recovery continues with surgeon checkups and eye procedure tweaks. The entire episode delayed the start date of writing my next book by five months. Time well spent, understandably, but the stress inside our abode has continued to pile up.
After several emergency visits to the Pet Hospital, one of our dogs, Poppy, was diagnosed in March with juvenile diabetes. Several more emergency visits ensued until recently, when the veterinarian finally sorted out the correct insulin dosage for our very small dog. Two needles a day and a regimented diet—with no chance to cure her diabetes—is incredibly tiresome, let alone worrisome. Does anybody want to pet-sit a diabetic dog who pees once an hour?
COVID-19 infected our household in the Spring like it did most people I know. Ever since the beginning of June, my better half has been the beneficiary of a long-COVID case. She’s finally been approved for an X-Ray and other analyses to see what’s up. But imagine coughing your lungs out every 15 minutes or so for the better part of the past five months. It’s exhausting.
At the end of August, due to several complications with a previous surgery of mine, blood was discovered in places it shouldn’t be. It’s like seeing Deadpool on the Death Star. It shouldn’t be happening. Horizontal for about seven days, I was then summoned to a colonoscopy. The marvels of science aside, I await the results of a biopsy and a polyps scan. Good times.
Our eldest child is in the second year of her university studies. She’s also a varsity athlete in Halifax. During a terrible tackle on the football pitch in the second week of the season, she strained the ligaments in both her ankle and knee. Season over. Hello, four-wheeled scooter! Almost eight weeks later, it’s not healing correctly. She’s on a waiting list for an MRI, yet a follow-up X-Ray is required first. I swear that Rome got built faster than Canada’s MRI and X-Ray booking system.
Today that same middle child with the eye injury was told by a surgeon—barring the results from a pending MRI—that his knee has suffered an ACL tear. It happened during a football match last week. (Mind you, he got up after the injury and scored two incredible goals.) Minimum three months on the shelf up to potentially 12. It’s his Grade 12 year.
I’ve been in tears ever since – which is why I’m writing this post and not my book. If anyone can get through this, it’s him. But Jesus, what the actual fuck is going on? I’m heartbroken.
Late in 2021, I posted a short video admitting that I struggle. Through various mediums, it has been viewed over 50,000 times.
I think I need to update that video.
No sympathy, please; I just needed to get this off my chest.
Life is hard. At times, it can really, really bite.
UPDATE: November 2. I've been informed I now require knee surgery (torn meniscus), with the date set for December 15. And the used car we purchased in June for the teenagers is now in the shop. Why? Nothing big. The engine failed and requires replacing.
Oh, 2022, I loathe you so.
