Write for the heroes

Mood

Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash

Dearest reader,

I’ve now been lying in a hospital emergency bed for four days after a severe appendicitis crisis. For the first time in my life, I’ve had serious surgery. Illusion of invulnerability now well shattered, thank you. Fun fact: a few hundred years ago, this would have been the end of me.

Obviously, spending days with a thingie in your arm fitted for various bags of liquid works a charm in terms of reminding you how fragile we all are. It’s obvious. It’s nonetheless true. From one breath to another, we can end up in a bed with our bodies failing and suddenly nothing matters anymore other than this bag of meat that we’ve taken for granted all this time.

Strangely, this whole hospital situation has put me in a foul mood. First, I’ve been confined to a small sticky bed and have been feverish, going from uncontrollable shivers to effusive sweat crises. Second, I don’t like being reminded of such things as my mortality. I prefer to wallow in a fake sense of specialness.

I’m obviously very lucky. Appendicitis can be lethal, but it’s a benign procedure. I’ve been surrounded by folks whose bodies are really collapsing, and of course, my current rant feels a bit self-conscious. I’ll blame it on you, dear reader. Yes, you needed to be reminded of how lucky you are. Unless of course, you are not so lucky, in which case I truly empathise with you.

The other reason why I feel in such a foul mood is the doctors. It’s hard to face up to people who are most definitely making a real difference on a daily basis without feeling a sliver of envy. I know that story and fiction have a huge role, and that they serve a very real purpose. But doctors… They look so tired from saving people, as if the weight of their own heroism is too much to bear. Maybe I should have been a doctor; certainly, that’s what my mother would have wanted for me.

On the other hand, it has made me reflect on why I’m doing what I do. It’s easy, when making films or writing fiction, to start worrying about the critic, the reviewer. But if I could even slightly entertain an emergency doctor during their shift break, if I managed to bring a smile to their faces or allowed them to escape for a fraction of a second, I would feel complete. Don’t write for critics, people. Don’t write for success. Write for the heroes.

I’m hoping to go home tomorrow. Hoping that this night will be the last in the ‘real world’, and also fever-free. Nightmare-free. I’m waiting for my gut to heal properly so I can come out and play the big game again with everyone. So I can stop counting the fire alarms on the ceiling and comparing their shades of white. I think about the people who are stuck in a hospital right now, or who have to spend a significant amount of time there because of their damaged envelopes. I think about how unfair it all is, about how awards, festivals, agents, prestige, and status can do nothing against an infection. Of course, it could be said of everything, and then nothing would matter anymore, so better not go this way.

Let’s just say that it’s good to be reminded every so often that most of what we deeply care about is just a game. That we are blessed with health, and more fragile than we look, and that it’s easy to forget this. Also, let’s be reminded of how heroic the bloody doctors are and that it’s preferable not to be an asshole to them, but rather to help them by offering good fiction, not solely written to impress an agent or a festival.

I’ve got a feeling I might regret this post tomorrow when I’m less feverish. Too bad. I’m alive, that’s all that counts.