Hinges

There are hinge moments in life. Things happen and after that life is never ever the same.

Some of those we are deeply conscious of: weddings, funerals, the birth of a child. There is a moment of sundering realization when you realize not only have you become someone else, and your preoccupations in life will now be quite different, but you’re also aware that there’s no going back.

Weirdly I’m really bad at those. At realizing such things, I mean. The only one I was absolutely sure of was when I held first son, then just less than a day old. I was startlingly, suddenly, aware that this creature would command my attention and was damn well entitled to my protection and undivided loyalty for the next eighteen years. (Yes, it’s cute that I thought it would be 18 years, and not that for the rest of my life the better part of my heart would be running around in someone else’s chest. The illusions of youth, I guess.)

Other than that, I have an habit of traipsing unawares past the point of no return, and leaving a pleasant or at least not unendurable way of life behind without ever realizing it. Even stuff like marrying overseas, I think rationally I knew would change everything, but I truly had no clue it would change me, or that changing me would be necessary to acculturate to my own home, or that the old adage of never going home again applied. And sure, I had many issues with the country itself — not as many as I have now, because now I see it from outside — and its unavigable bureaucracy was 99 of them. But of course I also have family there, and I didn’t realize how many of them I was seeing for the last time on my wedding day, because they died between that and the next visit when I was supposed to meet them, or moved away themselves and our paths never crossed again.

Would I have done it differently, if that had happened? Well, I wouldn’t. But I’d be more aware of the price I was paying and that sometimes five years or more go by between visits, and in that space I lose people like grandma without ever a chance to say goodbye. I’d have taken exactly the same step, of course, and maybe not knowing the price is better, because you don’t linger in pain at a moment of joy. Other such moments: when we moved away from Charlotte. I wasn’t even sure we’d like Colorado, much less that we’d only return (so far at least) to see our local friends once and that 20 years later for a few hours. And that some would have died, or moved away.) And now, of course, the move from Colorado. It is entirely possible I’ve gone to Pete’s Kitchen, on Colfax, for the last time in my life. I don’t know. We keep meaning to visit, but this summer has proved unexpectedly fraught, and I promised to visit my father in the fall. Also my brother isn’t doing well.

There are other hinges you don’t even know are occurring or are in your future. Like, your car of 30 years throws a fit on the highway, and suddenly the engine (and therefore the car) is scrap, and a fixture of your life is gone. Or your kid brings home his childhood friend who is now something more. (I love the Little Pickle, and the change is for the better, but ooh, boy, is it a change.) Or, though it’s not happened to me — knocks on head — there’s some sort of accident or incident and afterwards things are never, ever the same.

Then there are the hinges of fate you sleep walk through. But maybe that’s just me? To this day, and it’s been 33 years, I can’t tell you how or why I thought I could be published and middling successful and this would not affect my day to day life. I never expected stupid things like the neighbors knowing what I did for a living without my telling them (much less their crazy assumptions about writers. Castle has a lot to answer for) or the washer repairman spazzing when he saw my name and I confirmed I was indeed THAT Sarah A. Hoyt, or– a dozen such incidents. I’ve in fact taken to avoiding the neighbors all together and letting Dan be the social director, because he can tapdance more skillfully than I can.

The blog…. the blog was a total different ball of wax, since it started out being just a writing promo thing (I’m nto good at that, you might have noticed.) But the only way I could remain engaged enough to write everyday was to talk about things that matter to me: politics, culture, social issues, and odd stuff like this. And all of that made me far more of a public persona (even as small as this blog is) than I ever intended to be. It comes with some good and a lot of bad, as people not only make assumptions, but people who are, of necessity or temperament, in the political closet tend to avoid me or worse.

It is what it is. The hinge was always there, and I was always bound to open it, I think. And as with me living my natal clump of dirt behind, I’d have done the same, exactly the same way, it I’d known. Only it would have made the whole thing more unpleasant knowing what I was sacrificing.

I suppose there are also false hinges: things you think will change your life forever and then don’t. I don’t think I’ve experienced any of those. Or if I did I no longer remember them. It occurs to me something like winning the lottery might be one of those. I mean, yes, Dan would probably retire, but I doubt much of anything else would change. Oh, yeah, I probably wouldn’t do fundraisers, since those are psychologically difficult. Other than that? I’d write. And Dan would work (Okay, he’d work at things he likes more, but….) We’d visit the kids and their spouses when we have time. And…. that’s about it. Maybe I’d pay my much abused assistant a little more. That’s about it. Not a hinge, though it looks like one from here.

So what is this all about? Well…. I have a couple of tests — one that promises to be distinctly unpleasant — scheduled for tomorrow. Weirdly, the mildest diagnosis possible will result in immediate surgery. But that surgery should fix the problem once and for all. And other than a couple of days to recover, it’s not a hinge.

The second mildest diagnosis is also “We don’t know.” In which case it’s also not a hinge and I stay on fairly high dose maintenance anti-biotics which I seem to be tolerating well enough.

Anything else…. Well…. there’s a panoply of horrors there, and a vista of a future where my life is consumed by health issues (or ended by them, of course, one must say though not pleasant to contemplate.)

Is that likely? Eh. Right now they have absolutely no idea what’s going on, so not only is anything possible, but it’s hard to hazard a guess.

This disturbs me because I’m in the middle of a dozen things and very busy. (Whether I’m very busy to distract from this test which I knew was in my future, I’ll leave as an exercise for the reader.) I am, of course, running my fundraiser (and a more lackadaisacal one I can hardly imagine), and I’m refinishing our bedside tables. Look, we bought them when the kids were little, and they’re pressboard. We were, you see, going to buy good ones in a few years, but there were always other needs. And those d*mn things bubble up if you spill water on them, which given they’re bedside tables is kind of inevitable. We were going to replace them ten years ago, but have you seen the price of bedside tables? So…. So I’m doing what I do to pressboard crappy furniture. What? No, not setting them on fire. There is a perversity in me that means I must make them as fancy as humanly possible. So I’m marbelizing the tops (the epoxy finish at least will ensure that water spills are no longer a problem.) REALISTICALLY marbelizing. Cream/brown marble. And then painting the body of the thing to look like more convincing wood than the wretched paper veneer ever did. (Incidentally I didn’t realize how much I missed refinishing. I haven’t done it at all for almost 20 years.) And because insanity is a thing, I’m also creating a headboard to go with it. Do you want to know? No you don’t. The Little Pickle and Dan are divided on whether to be impressed of have me committed.

I’m also in the middle of Orphans of the Stars (I REALLY need a better title.) and almost done with Rhodes to Hell, and have another half dozen books waiting to be finished. Oh, and we’re moving in a month or so, though Dan is trying to contract as much of it out as possible to keep me writing. (Look, chilluns, it’s a family thing. The kids required us to move, so a move is happening. Oh, it will hopefully also contribute to a better, or at least easier time after. And a better lifestyle to keep our aging bodies in shape. BUT until it’s done, it’s mostly a time and funds sink.)

If the diagnosis is bad, all of those threads will be cut, middair. I might — in fact probably will — do them/continue with them, but everything will be slow and stupid, and hard to finish. And I’ll have trouble remembering why painting the headboard was so much fun, after all. And then things will change. Though finishing the books, particularly the Elly ones will be the highest priority, since I’m convinced if I die with them locked in my head, I’ll end up IN THEM. And I don’t want to be an Ellyan. They’re more complex and bizarre than we are.

Yesterday I told Dan I’d much rather not do the tests. Because he knows me very well, he said in complete calm seriousness, “Fine. Then call them and cancel.”

And part of me very much wants to do that. Even if it’s the worst, if I don’t know I can go on for quite a long while before it brings me to ground, and wouldn’t it be better not to know.

But of course I can’t. If I know even if it’s the worst, there’s a chance it can be stopped in its tracks, in which case I owe doing so to Dan, who really doesn’t want to be left alone, to my kids, who now and then still need me, to the pickles ditto, and even to my dad, who would stand a good chance to lose both children before his number is up.

So, no, I won’t cancel. The door will swing open. The hinge will creak ominously.

Is it a real hinge? Will I walk through the door and be changed forever? I don’t know. No one does. Maybe it’s nothing, and two days of discomfort, and the door will swing closed again and life will go on as usual. (Do I put purple on the headboard grapes? Seems needed, but just a touch, over the blue and the black.)

Or perhaps nothing will ever be the same.

The hinge is creaking, the door is opening, and there is not much I can gain by worrying about it. I’ll just try to meet what’s on the other side with a minimum of fuss, and get as much done as I may.

On the other side.

According to Hoyt 2026 Fundraiser, Day 13

(I will keep this up through day 17, because people have asked due to pay schedules.)

If you wish to donate: There is a Give Send Go fundraiser for this specific fundraiser set up. Here is a Paypal Me Link if you prefer that. (Yes, I know. Paypal, but for now, they’re behaving.) If you have a monthly donation setup to the permanent Give Send Go, that is still working and thank you! There are also two substacks you can subscribe to. One is on the side bar of the blog, the other is supposed to be a newsletter, as well as giving you chapters of the current work in progress if you become a paid subscriber. It takes cards. For snail mail: Sarah Hoyt 304 S Jones Blvd #6771 Las Vegas, NV 89107

And if you want to read the whole appeal, it’s here: Toss A Coin To Your Blogger, Oh Readers of Plenty.