The Two Kinds of Decay

Uncertainty

In the twelve years since my diagnosis I have not owned a home or a car, or had any job that wasn’t temporary, or married or lived with anyone.

I belong to an artists’ union and pay for its group health plan with freelance money and with the money I inherited when my grandfather died.

I’m thirty-two years old and I’m an unwed, adjunct-teaching, freelancing renter. But New York is full of people like me. Everyone in the city I know who owns property or has kids has one of two things: a full-time job or rich parents.

There exist several rationalizations for my life. I’m holding out for a teaching job that suits me. My parents aren’t rich. A full-time office job would sap my energy. I don’t want to buy a place until I’m sure I won’t meet someone who’ll share the down payment with me. And each of these explanations is reasonable enough.

But I know the real explanation is that I haven’t lost the fear that at any moment I will have to quit my job, say goodbye to my friends, leave my home, and go to the hospital not knowing when, or in what condition, I’ll be discharged.

My disease has been in complete remission for seven years, but I still act as if I expect it to come back tomorrow.