The problem is... the problem is I'm sitting on a time bomb.

And the problem with *that* is that I should have figgered that out a long time ago.

I really don't think that I'm depressed at this time. I think that I'm more anticipating being depressed... for the rest of my life. I really don't like that whole idea.

I don't like the idea that my heart has betrayed me, chipping away at it's own muscle while making me think it wasn't the real thing, faking me out with a healthy twinge that was "cured" with a single nitro tablet.

I don't like the idea that, though I only have two days to go until I get the pacemaker, I still have 36 hours that I need to survive.

I don't like the idea that I am withdrawing into myself in a protective mode, eschewing wishes of better health with a casual "I'm OK, don't worry".

I'm *not* OK, I have a disease that is going to kill me.

I'm trying to come to terms with that idea, and it's hard, hard, hard because every day, I just keep on living my life like nothing has changed.

I really don't know what else to do.

I have this... thing... hanging over my head, and I'm getting damned claustrophobic about it. And this is where I do my soul-searching, and try to straighten out my thinking. And it isn't working worth a damn.

Maybe, maybe... what will happen in the next 36 hours will make me realize something, give my an epiphany of some sort, give me some... hope.

Hope is what I need, what I want.