A well-meaning, little knowing acquaintance recently advised me to be patient. Really? Patient? I had noted that a particular treatment I find particularly unpleasant does not seem to be doing anything for me. Give it some time, the guy suggested. Be patient. Another chronically healthy being was weighing in on something he knew nothing about.
Yes, we are in this for the long haul, but the idea of demonstrating how patient we can be in the face of losing ground is misguided wisdom or a poor substitute. I am freaking sick of disease drama, tired of waiting for the day when events turn around, all the while knowing that day likely will not come. Live with it? Yes. What choices do we have? But patience? Please.
I used to talk myself into showing emotional restraint. Then it mostly was done for show, mostly to put those I cared about at ease. Now I don’t really bother. I do try to keep it to myself. I do not want to inflict my distemper on anyone but the dog. But please do not tell me to be patient. I did that for too many decades. Enough is enough.
The older I get, the more sand I see spilling out of the hourglass. That is not a comforting sight. I want to get better and the time to enjoy it. It is all part of the mind game, of course. I long have wanted to dabble in fiction. A guy can dream. But don’t rub my face in reality. I need a vacation from that. And I reserve the right to be impatient.