substance

Ghosts appear and Fade Away
-Colin Hays (men At work)

Benjamin ferret walks with a waddle, dragging his hind quarters a little. He has advanced adrenal disease, and even a melatonin implant does not seem to be quite helping. Surgery would help, but that’s something I cannot afford… and to be fair, something many vets would think foolish on a six year old ferret. He is a trooper though, and whenever he senses I am close, he waddles up to me and assumes the baby position for kisses. Funny how my old man is acting like an infant now, in the twilight of his time on earth.

I suppose we all do that.

I have been sick for the last few weeks. Aw who am I kidding, months. I have finally gone beneath a detectable level of T Cells, and though I have been prescribed a new regimen, I have not taken a pill yet.

This is not slow suicide. This is not a conscious nor an unconscious effort to shuffle off this mortal coil (as coils go, am quite fond). Its just a desire not to feel bad, which despite my IQ and education, remains the primary impetus for all my life’s choices.

Do more stuff that feels good. Less stuff that don’t. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Might this philosophy kill me? Sure. Doesn’t life, as a philosophy, kill everyone eventually? It does. Yes it does. Does too.

Thing is, I like my ferrets. I like my friends. I like my family. I like my life. None of these things are without serious dysfunction. But they are mine to dys-function in. They are mine to enjoy, and cuddle, and call at odd hours of the morning. To be fair, the ferrets usually let me go through to voicemail after three AM or so. Thing is, this is what AIDS is like. It’s what it does. At least, its what it does to me. And this blog is, by it’s nature, AIDS specific.

I have been in isolation mode for the last couple of weeks, getting treated for a fungal infection. And you know something? I kinda dig it. The isolation, not the infection. I kind of like the idea of only a select few people knowing my stuff, only having to explain myself (or the absence of myself) to a few people. Not feeling guilty for the crime of having slept twenty hours.

Benjamin ferret is spry, for an old guy with cancer. He has sores on his belly from the cancer. He sleeps an awful lot. But you know, when he is awake, he is cheerful and fine. He walks around, surveying his domain, putting the upstart Duncan in his place, and making sure that all is still fine in the world he can investigate.

I get that. I do.

I just put my hand down from the futon, and Benjamin crawled up onto it, looking to kiss me. We made out for a moment, then he had other things to attend, and waddled off.

We do that. We waddle off, after touching base with the creatures we love. We let them know, and remind ourselves, that we are all still viable, potent, and alive. And then we waddle off, sores and hormonal rages and sickness carried within us like a potpourri of sickness and death, to investigate and make sure of our worlds. Our worlds might be small, and our sickness might be large.

But we have what we have, and we love whom we love. And our worlds, they are our treasures, our selfish pleasures. We need them for reasons we cannot always articulate. We need to know they are there.

I am lucky beyond measure, because my needs are met. Not my wants, seeing as how wanting to be healthy and without stain are among those wants. But the needs, shelter, food, entertainment, pets. These are here.

These days, that is enough. More than.