It's a fair cop, but Charles Dickens is to blame

I have to say, I'm kind of disappointed. When I was a kid, given to reading bleak and dramatic fiction, I didn't figure having a potentially life threatening condition would be so blah. Imagine you're a sad, misunderstood, frustrated emo child as I most definitely was, and you feel no one gets you and no one appreciates you. You live in a miserable little cocoon, unloved by all, until one day, you find out you're dying. Then, suddenly, everyone realizes how much you mean to them. They realize the errors of their ways and want to make up for lost time. And even better, somehow your sudden receipt of an expiry date crystallizes all your needs and ambitions, allowing you to rise above the confusion and uncertainty to be the best version of yourself possible. Gone are your petty frustrations and insecurities. The illness and your ticking mortality burn you clean of all but your best qualities. As the flame of your existence slowly extinguishes, you spend your days being as good, kind, and productive as possible, leaving behind a legacy of art, poetry and literature that will be remembered for generations to come.

The End.

Reality has been rather different. Of course, I am not 'dying' as such. Yep, I can somewhat hold out hope that THAT is wrench in the works. (Sigh, yes, I'm that warped.) Not that I'm a lot more mediocre than I dreamed I was. But yes, despite two life threatening diagnoses in a one year period - malignant thyroid cancer over the summer and a brain aneurysm in the winter - I have yet to achieve Dickensian hero status. I am not a better wife, daughter, sister, aunt, friend or Muslim. And while a few old and nearly forgotten friends have come out of the woodwork to tell me how much they care, a bunch of what I thought were fairly solid bosom buddies haven't even poked me to see if I'm still ticking. Ah well. And, as this blog has so amply demonstrated, no brilliance has poured forth from my fingers. While my beloved big sis Zeba has managed to turn her years of terrible/terminal health into beautiful works of love, intelligence and faith, alls I got is this blog and a website that I can't get off the ground. Seriously Zee, whatta fail.

But eh. I'm working on it. I've always believed that who we are is up to us. If I want to produce something valuable and useful, or do acts of service for those I love, then nothing will hold me back but my own lack of will. So, I shall continue to publicly humiliate myself with what will, in lieu of any other forthcoming efforts, be the threat of my 'legacy'. That is, writing this cruddy little blog. And, if writer wisdom holds true, eventually, I will drain all my latent brain crap and start to tap into something a bit more substantive in time. Or go out in a blaze of ordinary ordure.