An honest update from T.D. Hilderley
I’ve spent the better part of twenty years writing stories about complicated people, impossible circumstances, devastating choices, and the consequences that follow.
Apparently, somewhere along the way, my body decided it wanted to become the main character.
Unfortunately, it appears to have chosen a medical thriller, and I would very much like to speak to the author.
For those of you who have followed my writing journey, you know that I tend to approach life with a rather dark sense of humour. It’s how I’ve always coped with things that are difficult to understand, impossible to change, or simply too painful to acknowledge without finding something absurd about them.
Lately, I’ve needed that humour more than ever.
The Slow Decline Nobody Sees
My health hasn’t deteriorated overnight. It’s been a gradual process, one that began years ago with injuries, chronic pain, degenerative spinal conditions, and the uncomfortable realization that my body wasn’t going to cooperate with the life I had planned.
I went from working in healthcare, caring for other people, to becoming someone who needed help herself.
That transition was harder than I ever admitted.
When you’re accustomed to being independent, capable, and responsible for others, losing pieces of that independence feels like losing pieces of yourself.
Some days, the limitations are manageable. Other days, something as ordinary as getting dressed, bending over, or moving around the house becomes an exercise in patience and creative profanity.
Writing became my refuge.
When my physical world started getting smaller, my imagination gave me somewhere else to go. I could build entire worlds without leaving my chair. I could create characters who fought, loved, survived, and made terrible decisions, usually with considerably more enthusiasm than common sense.
There was something comforting about being able to control what happened on the page when I couldn’t control what was happening inside my own body.
But over the past few months, things have become considerably more complicated.
When a Routine Appointment Becomes a Plot Twist
What began as routine medical follow-up turned into a growing list of diagnoses, medications, referrals, and tests.
First came diabetes.
Then elevated cholesterol and triglycerides, high blood pressure, and a resting heart rate that apparently believed I was running a marathon while sitting perfectly still.
At one point, my blood pressure reached 171/113.
My heart rate regularly hovered around 110 beats per minute.
Apparently, my cardiovascular system had decided that resting was merely a suggestion.
There were episodes of overwhelming exhaustion, chest pressure, shortness of breath, nausea, and symptoms I initially dismissed as panic attacks. I’ve lived with anxiety long enough to recognize how convincingly it can imitate a medical emergency.
The frightening part is realizing that sometimes the symptoms overlap so closely that you cannot safely tell the difference without medical assessment.
Now there are medications, blood pressure diaries, glucose monitors, cardiology referrals, and enough medical appointments to qualify as a part-time occupation.
I have a Dexcom monitoring my blood sugar, which means I now have a tiny electronic device keeping track of my dietary decisions.
Nothing says personal accountability quite like having your own bloodstream submit performance reviews.
When Your Body Stops Following Instructions
Then came the tremor.
It started subtly in my left hand, a little shaking that was easy enough to dismiss. Over the following months, it became progressively worse.
While vacationing in Mexico, I experienced an episode so severe that I couldn’t pick up a small piece of chocolate from a plate. My fingers were trying to cooperate, but my hand was shaking uncontrollably.
My husband had to pick it up and put it in my mouth.
Naturally, we laughed.
Because what else do you do when your body refuses to let you eat chocolate?
But underneath the humour was something neither of us particularly wanted to acknowledge.
It was frightening.
Since then, I’ve noticed increasing weakness throughout my left arm. Ordinary movements, like reaching for my phone while lying in bed, now require a surprising amount of effort.
My doctor has identified reduced strength and absent reflex responses on that side. With my history of cervical spine degeneration, spinal injuries, and repeated falls, I’m now awaiting neurological investigations and MRI imaging of my brain and spine.
I also have an old spinal fracture that has not healed as expected.
I used to think of myself as clumsy.
These days, I’m beginning to appreciate that sometimes the body is telling us something more complicated.
And Then Came the Word Tumour
Three years ago, at thirty-nine, I underwent a hysterectomy after doctors discovered multiple malignant tumours involving my uterus and ovaries.
It was a chapter of my life I had hoped was permanently closed.
Recently, doctors discovered a tumour on my thyroid and several small tumours in my left breast.
Because of my previous cancer history, there is concern that cancer may have returned.
I want to be very clear about something.
At the time of writing this, I do not have confirmation that these new growths are cancerous.
There are more imaging appointments, thyroid investigations, and a breast biopsy ahead.
Right now, I’m living in that uncomfortable space between knowing something is wrong and not yet knowing exactly what it means.
Anyone who has waited for medical results understands how strange that space can be.
Life continues around you. People go to work, make dinner, complain about traffic, and plan their weekends.
Meanwhile, part of your mind is quietly rehearsing conversations you hope you’ll never have.
I have a family history of cancer, too, which adds another layer of uncertainty. It’s something my doctors and I need to explore further.
But uncertainty is not a diagnosis, and I’m trying very hard to remember that.
The Things Chronic Illness Takes
People often talk about chronic illness in terms of pain, medication, and medical appointments.
What they don’t always talk about is grief.
Not necessarily grief for someone who has died, but grief for the person you used to be.
The woman who could work long hours without thinking about whether her body would cooperate tomorrow.
The woman who could make plans without calculating pain levels, fatigue, mobility, or the nearest place to sit down.
The woman who could trust her own strength.
There is a particular loneliness in watching your physical abilities change while your ambitions remain exactly where they were.
My mind still wants to create, travel, build, experience, and accomplish things.
My body increasingly responds with what can only be described as a formal complaint.
And there are days when I get angry.
Not inspirationally angry. Not the kind of anger that looks good printed on a motivational poster.
Just angry.
Angry that simple things have become difficult. Angry that my independence has changed. Angry that another appointment, another test, or another diagnosis can rearrange an entire week.
And sometimes, beneath that anger, I’m scared.
I think it’s important to admit that.
Strength doesn’t mean never being frightened. It doesn’t mean maintaining a positive attitude every waking moment. Sometimes it means acknowledging that you’re overwhelmed without pretending otherwise.
What Happens to the Stories?
This is where my writing journey comes back into the picture.
Over the past twenty years, I’ve written stories that mean an extraordinary amount to me. I currently have nine completed manuscripts awaiting publication.
My original plan was to release three or four books annually over the next two to three years.
But life has a habit of reminding us that plans are not guarantees.
With so much uncertainty surrounding my health, I’ve been reconsidering that timeline.
Not because I’ve given up on writing.
Quite the opposite.
I want these stories in the hands of readers.
I don’t want unfinished publishing plans becoming someone else’s responsibility if I need to devote more time and energy to medical treatment or recovery.
So I’m considering an accelerated publication schedule, potentially releasing one book each month over the next nine months.
Twenty years of storytelling, finally finding its way into the world.
There is something both terrifying and beautiful about that.
It also means I may need to step back from writing new material for a while.
And that’s difficult for someone who has spent so much of her life finding purpose in creating something from nothing.
But perhaps the stories I’ve already written deserve their opportunity to breathe while I concentrate on doing the same.
I’m Not Writing a Goodbye
I want to make that absolutely clear.
This is not a farewell letter, an announcement of defeat, or an invitation for anyone to start writing my obituary.
Frankly, if someone is going to write my ending, I’d prefer to retain editorial control.
This is simply an acknowledgment that my life is changing, and I’m trying to change with it.
There are still answers to find, treatments to consider, and decisions to make.
Some days I’ll have the energy to work, laugh, create, and engage with all of you.
Other days, I may disappear into a quiet room with a book, an audiobook, or a fictional man whose questionable moral compass is considerably less complicated than my medical history.
We all have our coping mechanisms.
Mine just happen to come with excellent dialogue and morally questionable romantic interests.
To the Readers Who Have Stayed
I don’t share all of this because I want sympathy.
I share it because there’s a real person behind the books, the characters, the marketing posts, and the occasional wildly inappropriate joke.
And sometimes that person is struggling.
Sometimes she’s exhausted.
Sometimes she’s frightened.
And sometimes she’s still laughing at the absolute absurdity of it all.
If I’m quieter than usual, please don’t mistake my absence for a lack of appreciation.
Your support matters more than you probably realize.
Every book purchased, every review written, every message shared, and every reader who takes a chance on one of my stories reminds me that something meaningful can grow from circumstances we never would have chosen.
I don’t know exactly what the next chapter of my life will look like.
For someone who normally outlines every chapter before writing it, that’s an uncomfortable position to be in.
But I’m learning that not every story allows its author to control the plot.
Sometimes all we can control is how honestly we tell it.
And mine isn’t finished.
With love, gratitude, and a thoroughly inappropriate sense of humour,
T.D. Hilderley
Author. Storyteller. Reluctant protagonist in a medical thriller I never agreed to write.
www.tdhilderleybooks.com