Ah, it’s not the blank page that all writers fear that I’m worried about. Those days have long left me. Now it’s applying the discipline to stop!
When I first started with a professional writing commission, I sat in the office all day with that fear freezing me. (Those were the days before even fax machines. I suppose I’ll have to explain what a fax machine is.)
What would the readers think? What would my commissioner think? Sitting opposite me, he said kindly, “Just do it. I’m off to the pub.”
It was that late!
Maybe it was the thought of a drink that finally freed me. I rattled the assignment off on a mechanical typewriter in front of me and left it on his desk for the morning.
Besides a bit of grammar — still my bête noire — he changed barely anything. My career was off. It couldn’t have hurt that I’d bought him a pint the previous night.
I’ve got START — which in the British healthcare system stands for Short Term Assessment and Reablement Team, a program to facilitate independence — beginning this week. My MS relapse, along with yet another urinary tract infection and a complete destruction of my right arm from neurological pain, had completely withered me.
The START team will arrive every day for an hour to get me out of bed using the hoist. I have four hoist suits. Two are regular, so that one can be washed. One is for the toilet, so that I can be put on the commode. Another is for the shower, so that I can be put on the commode, which also is a shower chair, and then be wheeled to the shower.
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