For over a century, Hallward House has stood atop a hill and watched over the passing of generations. Its care has come to me, and care it needs as time takes its toll.
Unlike the art of Basil Hallward, whose greatest painting aged in place of the notorious Dorian Gray, my own creations have thus far not staved off the ravages of age. Overzealous entropies, coupled with mysterious maladies, work their mischief not just on the house but on yours truly. My joints groan like creaking doors, and that is but the most dignified domain of disrepair. The ailments are too numerous and some too personal to mention.
I’d put off tending the needs of my own physical form in favor of eking out work around the house and grounds. This is no longer tenable, and hasn’t really been so for years. Of late the body breaks down nigh too far to permit basic maintenance, let alone rebuilding the battlements.
My sweetie caught me limping and clutching my abdomen. Because she cares, I’m now getting medical care. There is also another reason I acquiesced to seek help. This slight shade of my ailments became externally apparent within hours of another artist friend telling me that he’d just lost one of his extended circle to chronic pain, or to the medical community’s recent refusal to help manage such pain. That’s the most polite and euphemistic way I can put it. Now I have to hope for more than pain relief from a doctor who gave, in writing, blank refusal to prescribe such before I’d even met him in person. I need not just the masking of symptoms—I’ve already been going without such—but genuine treatment.
Once again, time is not on our side. My own body’s needs have become urgent right as the Hound of Hallward House is weathering some mysterious malady of her own. On the same night the puppy princess had to fast for testing, so did I. We’re hoping to hear good news on all fronts. The puppy has more of my heart than I’d ever have thought possible. As for myself, after decades of body aches and migraines and dizziness and sleeplessness getting worse all the time, I’m really hoping the doctors will come up with not just a name for my condition but a cure.
I’ve had my blood drawn twice this month, surrendering quite a bit of it upon the most recent occasion. Let the vampires take it if it will extend my capacity to live! Let the maddest of scientists have it if they may improve the quality of my life. More to the point, let the urgent care doctor make of it what she can, as she seemed to genuinely care more than any general practitioner I’ve had in my adult life.
Most of my ailments have only ever been visible to those willing to look beneath the skin, as scans revealed the kidney stone and collapsing lung and misaligned spine. All too often, G.P.s regard what they can’t see with the naked eye as unbelievable. Introverts with a lifetime of being disbelieved have little reserve energy to advocate for themselves. They suffer and even die from being brushed off. If it weren’t for the insistence of loved ones, I know I’d be in far worse condition than I am now.
Still I need to be able to function much better than this. There is ever and always so much to do.
N. Rueheart
Pictured: Details from “Hitchhiking Ghastlies” and “Nurse X“
N.R.©MMXXII
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