257,608 and 305,382

257,608.

That is the number of words I have spoken into my AI-supported dictation app in the four months since I bought a licence. Excluding days when I don’t write, such as Shabbat, that’s over 2,500 words a day. Including the typing I still do when I am able (and to correct the dictation), the true figure could be closer to 350,000-400,000 words.

Then there is another number.

305,382.

That was the total word count of my English-language blog posts as of 11 June. It is significantly higher now. Much of that writing has found its way into articles, blogs, and even four books since my retirement.

It is obviously the case that I use AI to help me dictate, polish my writing, assist with research, and occasionally draw cartoons. But the ideas, perspective, style, and vast majority of the words are my own, even if the dictation software sometimes mishears me, or more accurately, struggles with my increasingly slurred speech.

I am genuinely staggered.

Not because the writing is all good. Much of it isn’t. Drafts get abandoned. Articles never get published. Ideas that seem brilliant at midnight often look far less impressive in the morning.

The numbers matter to me for a different reason.

When PSP forced me into retirement, I assumed my world was about to become much smaller. In many ways, it did. I lost mobility, independence in some of the most private ways, and abilities I once took for granted.

What I did not expect was to find a new purpose.

Through writing, I discovered a new community, a creative outlet, and a way to continue contributing despite the disease.

I do not know how long my cognition will last. PSP offers no guarantees. But while I can still think, write, and communicate, I intend to make use of those gifts.

I know how fortunate I am to have retained my cognition for this long. While I still can, I want to use it to help others understand what this journey is really like from a patient’s perspective.

The reason I share these numbers is not to boast. It is to make a simple point.

People living with terminal illness, chronic pain, or significant disability can still find meaning and purpose. The contribution may look different from before. It may be slower. It may require adaptation. But it can still be real.

For me, that purpose has become writing and to some the volume has proved overwhelming (for which I apologize to those who have drowned!)

For others, it may be volunteering, mentoring, creating, teaching, caring, learning, supporting family, or simply being there for the people they love.

The numbers are not the story.

The story is that even when life changes beyond recognition, purpose can still be found in places we never expected.

PSP will eventually take more from me, as it does from everyone who lives with it. But if these numbers mean anything at all, they are a reminder that purpose does not have to end when illness begins. We may not control how long our abilities remain, but we can still choose what we do with them while they are here. And when the time comes that we can no longer continue, the impact of those efforts may remain long after our ability to make them has gone.