Member-only story
Go Down, And Rise Up, Swinging
A confessional on how I’ve been fighting for my life.
My father was nearly 50 when I was born, so his parenting was peppered with sayings that were well outside of my cultural reference. One of my faves was “Don’t let Mord kick you!”
I later found out that mord is French for mule (my father’s usage likely a nod to our Creole/Cajun ancestry). And mules are known to let their legs fly: as a warning, if they feel threatened or defiantly feisty.
2019 was my Mord. An ass, kicking.
[The following is a long, overdue explanation to some family and friends about how I’m really doing.]
I almost died last year. Not euphemistically. I mean every word of that sentence. 2019 almost ended me on this physical plane.
I need to take a moment to apologize to all of my friends who were brought to tears and near yelling, trying to get me to seek medical attention earlier in the year. I certainly did not want to bring stress and worry into anyone else’s sphere. I was already shouldering plenty of that on my own. Too much of it, in fact.
