Note: I wrote all of this except the last paragraph in April or May of 2017. I changed names as well, except for Henry’s.
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I’m on the bus to go see my son Henry at the hospital. I have to take him in a taxi to another hospital for some specialist doctor appointments they don’t do at the hospital at which he lives. I don’t want to take him on the bus to the other hospital because I don’t want to have to jostle with other curious passengers when I have to turn on his suction machine to suck out the saliva and mucus that collects in his tracheotomy tube. He would love to go on the bus though. He’s two. Despite the physical disabilities he has from the surgery to remove his brain tumour, he’s very sharp mentally and gets as excited about a big red double decker bus as any other little boy. I’ll take him on a bus soon and if it makes anyone uncomfortable they can suck my dick. Metaphorically; my family needs me too much for me to get sent to prison for trying to force a stranger to suck my dick on a bus. I do pass two prisons on the way to the hospital though so maybe it could work.
I’m so fucking tired. The front of my head feels like it’s stuffed with hot trash. My chest and throat feel constricted and I’m reminded that while my life is and will remain stressful for the foreseeable future, I could at least lose some weight to reduce my heart’s workload, so a cardiac event doesn’t take me out before I turn 50.
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My biggest fear had always been that I wind up somehow being conscious for eternity. Like that I die, wind up in heaven or hell or wherever and I remain “me” and just never shut off and have to endure being conscious and aware and nothing is wonderful enough or horrible enough to engage me for that long, i.e. eternity. That might be a factor in the heavy drinking I quit 15 years ago; the idea that I could really effectively hit my own consciousness’ kill switch as needed. Might also be why I’ve always enjoyed naps more than food or money.