I should have a saying: "Once is an anomaly, twice is a blog post."

I've had two job recruiters reach out to me in the past week. Both times I've had to tell them I'm no longer in the job market; I have stage 4 rectal cancer.

I posted about this on Mastodon. It's actually kind of a liberating feeling, especially when I spent the latter part of 2016 and most of 2017 looking for work. I can finally tell these recruiters something that's the equivalent of a mouthful of garlic to a vampire: "Nope. This body is not for sale anymore. Unclean! Unclean!"

I'm a big fan of non-participation in things that I find distasteful and unpleasant. During my bout of unemployment I dreaded every interview I had. Granted, some of the folks I interviewed with were fascinating and doing amazing work, but I knew never to get my hopes up because they were soon to be dashed. And dashed they were, repeatedly. Had it not been for the grace of one of my friends that had an opening I'd likely still be out of work, trying to find someone who would take a chance on me.

But no more. The shingle is retired. I'm winding down my current work. The treatment is kicking my ass left and right. There's going to be a yet-another gap on my resume and I'm OK with it. With luck I'll never have to explain it.

That doesn't mean I'll stop doing things. That's just not my nature. But it does mean that doing things for others that have implicit deadlines or support needs aren't going to be things I can do anymore. The body is tired, and my ability to focus is fleeting. Right now I'm sitting on the bed next to my emotional support cat (who is doing all of the sleeping for both of us) thinking about what the future holds and how to bring it within my grasp.