The Rage of Recovery

That fucking drool. Every day it ambushes me.

I pull up to my perch in the living room, plug in my Surface, open it, log in, ready to write — and then, out of the corner of my eye, a drop of spit clings to my lip like some humiliating reminder of everything I’ve lost.

That hole in my lip? It’s fucking annoying.

I have to constantly watch for stray drool. It’s embarrassing around people and infuriating when I’m alone. And you know where that leads me — straight back to hating the motherfucker who caused this. Hating her with the wrath of a thousand demons. I curse that fucking bitch-whore.

I know. It’s not healthy, not productive, blah blah fucking blah.

But it doesn’t change reality.

Six weeks ago, I could sit here and type without worrying about spit slipping through a hole in my face. Five weeks ago, that equation changed. And today, apparently, I’m just fucking annoyed. The day isn’t even over yet.

My insulin pump is low. My glucose sensor expired last night. I need to get to my house and not just grab more, but take stock and order supplies. And asking other people to do it for me? They don’t know what they’re looking for. They’re not diabetic. This isn’t their language. It’s not fair to expect them to navigate something they don’t live with.

So I have to navigate the stairs.

Today.

To-fucking-day.

Will it happen? I don’t know.

My friend’s husband is right — it’s going to be difficult. My left wrist is out of the splint but weak as fuck. I can move my fingers like a champ, but strength is a different story. That’ll come eventually, but not today. Not fucking today.

So I sit here, still dependent on others. And yes, I’m grateful as hell for the people helping me — I love them for it — but anyone who knows me knows how much I fucking hate depending on anyone. I’ve always been a solo act. I do life alone, on my terms.  

Dependence is my personal hell.

And yeah, I know I lack patience. I know healing takes time. I know all of that intellectually. It doesn’t change the frustration chewing at me.

Here’s the truth: when it comes to living, experiencing, choosing — I’m a control freak. Ever since the cardiac arrests, I’ve driven my life with purpose and intensity. It’s how I make meaning, chase impact, build my legacy. It’s how I grit my teeth through pain to finish this memoir — typing through broken bones, soft tissue damage, and a fucked-up face.

That fire? That’s me. That’s who I am.

And I can’t feed that fire while I’m dependent on others to move, to climb stairs, to access my goddamned insulin.

This — this dependence — is part of why I will never go to a nursing home.

Never.

If I lose my mind later in life? In one lucid moment, I’ll walk into the mountains and never come back. I refuse to live a life stripped of autonomy. Fuck that. And fuck this society for pretending nursing homes are some kind of compassionate solution.

Nobody — absolutely nobody — wants to go to a nursing home. There’s no quality of life, no independence, no autonomy. And yet we funnel the elderly into them like it’s the natural next step.

It’s easier for families, sure. But that doesn’t make it right.

Nursing homes feel like the ultimate expression of enforced collectivism — maybe even communism if I’m being honest — where the individual ceases to matter. And in a country supposedly founded on individual freedom, you’d think personal autonomy would be sacred.

It’s not. And fuck that. Just fucking saying.