Chapter 13. End Of the Line
On 20 February 2020 I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. My heart has an ejection fraction of around 12%, which means I've got roughly a year to live, at most maybe two. Among other things, I won't get to see the house finished. And I'm OK with it. That I've accomplished as much as I have is both unexpected and remarkable, so I have no regrets.
Consequently, I've elected to stop working on the house. If I only have a year or two left, I'd prefer to spend them doing things I'd built my house to do within. The house itself is actually not my top priority in life, odd as that sounds. Oh, I may diddle around with it here and there on occasion if the spirit moves me, but only because I choose to do so, not because I must. It just means someone else gets to finish it, and (hopefully) enjoy it as much as I have. Who that may be I've no idea.
UPDATE: On 8 September 2022, I sold my property. How could I give up on my "dream" so easily? Simple: survival. If I'd stayed, I'd gradually be crushed to death by the physical and financial burden of a place I was no longer equipped to carry. Where I moved to is virtually stress-free: I just plant my butt in an easy chair, and have nothing to worry about about other than what to have for lunch. It could add months to my life, even perhaps as much as another year. Quite simply, I'm less concerned with how much time I might have left as with the quality of it, and the burdens of my dream home outweighed its benefits. I sold it to a friend of a friend, so it didn't go to a total stranger. Plus, the buyer is "in sync" with my vision and aesthetics, so it should remain pretty much intact. I rest comfortably knowing that it's in good hands.
The Last of It
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