Chapter 13. End Of the Line
The house isn't done yet. On the other hand, I am. On 20 February 2020 I learned that I have final stage congestive heart failure: I have an ejection fraction of less than 15%. In plain English, my lifespan is limited to two to three years at most, more likely about one. But given that it also greatly curtails my physical activity, it means I won't live 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 want to do—the 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, 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.
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