It's dark.
I haven't had this much trouble finding the light in a very long time. Most of the weekend was spent in bed, curled up in a ball. So unimaginative. Damon got me out of bed around noon with coffee and bagels. By 1:30 I was back in my nest. I arose again for a couple hours in the evening, all the while
wondering how soon I could return to my safe place.
I am tearful about ridiculous things, almost feeling peri menopausal in the lack of control I have over my tear ducts. And the heaviness is the worst part. It's like there is too much gravity and even the act of getting out of bed requires a huge amount of will.
Must I wait til spring for relief? Will Doc have a suggestion tomorrow? This is beyond tiresome. It is drudgery. It can not continue.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Left Turn Ahead
People are talking about death. Not since Doctor Kavorkian was in the news have I heard so much chatter about assisted suicide.
Why now?
A young woman with brain cancer moves to Oregon so she can die with dignity, on her terms, with her loved ones around her. Rest in peace, we say, but die slowly, painfully, as God would want you to die.
An elderly client told me she had another heart attack and said, "No I didn't go to the hospital. If I die I'm going to live til I die. I'm not dying in a hospital bed. "
I overheard a conversation by a man in his 50s talking about how, if he lives to be 75, will not seek medical attention after reaching that age. He sees no purpose and will let nature take its course.
Maybe we are turning against the trend to live as long as possible at all costs. Regardless of quality of life. Regardless of happiness. Health. Fullfillment. Satisfaction. Just keep breathing. At all costs. In spite of pain. Artificial means are okay. Just keep breathing.
Maybe pillowtime is becoming fashionable. This gives me hope.
Why now?
A young woman with brain cancer moves to Oregon so she can die with dignity, on her terms, with her loved ones around her. Rest in peace, we say, but die slowly, painfully, as God would want you to die.
An elderly client told me she had another heart attack and said, "No I didn't go to the hospital. If I die I'm going to live til I die. I'm not dying in a hospital bed. "
I overheard a conversation by a man in his 50s talking about how, if he lives to be 75, will not seek medical attention after reaching that age. He sees no purpose and will let nature take its course.
Maybe we are turning against the trend to live as long as possible at all costs. Regardless of quality of life. Regardless of happiness. Health. Fullfillment. Satisfaction. Just keep breathing. At all costs. In spite of pain. Artificial means are okay. Just keep breathing.
Maybe pillowtime is becoming fashionable. This gives me hope.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
If ever I was a child
I always wanted to make them happy or did I want them to love me so I tried my best? Doesn't really matter, does it. They showed each other affection on occasion but it always looked liked Dad loved Mom more than she loved him. I don't know why I felt that way. Maybe it was twinkle he got in his eyes every once in a blue moon. I don't remember her steel blue eyes ever having a twinkle. She had a temper; that's probably where mine comes from, I guess.
There was the morning after Thanksgiving when they had a fight. The ping pong table was set up in the living room as it was every year. Mom got so angry she smashed a record on the table. The memory has faded and I can no loner tell you the singer but it was one of her favorites. Dad walked out, got in the 5p Impala (damn I wish I had that car) and drove away. Those steel blue eyes looked into mine and she said "He'll be back. He has no where to go."
Was it that argument or another that led to them not speaking to each other for days and using me as a messenger. "Ask your Dad what he wants for dinner?" "Tell her I don't care." Walking on eggshells. Violence. No, never. Now they would call it mental abuse. In 1960, 1965, it was life in the suburbs.
I was a smart kid. School was easy for me. School life was not. I was chubby, had asthma and an over-protective mother. As for Dad, I don't know what he thought of me really. I do remember him trying to teach me to ride a bike one day but a tire on the bike went flat, and I never got on a bike again. It was Mom who always wrote the notes, the endless notes. "Please excuse Sondra from PE/camp/anything fun or possibly dangerous because she has asthma." I never got to do anything! I was in Girl Scouts but never got to go to sleep away camp. Oh, and I do remember when I got older that I could have friends sleep over at my house but I was not allowed to stay at friend's houses---and that was Dad's rule.
There was the morning after Thanksgiving when they had a fight. The ping pong table was set up in the living room as it was every year. Mom got so angry she smashed a record on the table. The memory has faded and I can no loner tell you the singer but it was one of her favorites. Dad walked out, got in the 5p Impala (damn I wish I had that car) and drove away. Those steel blue eyes looked into mine and she said "He'll be back. He has no where to go."
Was it that argument or another that led to them not speaking to each other for days and using me as a messenger. "Ask your Dad what he wants for dinner?" "Tell her I don't care." Walking on eggshells. Violence. No, never. Now they would call it mental abuse. In 1960, 1965, it was life in the suburbs.
I was a smart kid. School was easy for me. School life was not. I was chubby, had asthma and an over-protective mother. As for Dad, I don't know what he thought of me really. I do remember him trying to teach me to ride a bike one day but a tire on the bike went flat, and I never got on a bike again. It was Mom who always wrote the notes, the endless notes. "Please excuse Sondra from PE/camp/anything fun or possibly dangerous because she has asthma." I never got to do anything! I was in Girl Scouts but never got to go to sleep away camp. Oh, and I do remember when I got older that I could have friends sleep over at my house but I was not allowed to stay at friend's houses---and that was Dad's rule.
Why not today
Cliche 1: I'm finally writing a blog.
Cliche 2: So what?
Cliche 3: It's all been said before.
I attempted to write a book years ago. You remember books; tightly bound sheets of paper memorializing that which one viewed as important during some critical period of time. Never finished it. Never finished a lot of things: my education, my climb up the corporate ladder, numerous diets, and many unimportant tasks.How do I make this valuable, not just my rantings? Public or private? Share or no?
Funny stories. Sure, I have lots. Famous people. I've met some. Are they important? Should this be about my ongoing fight with Crohn's Disease? My family now and before? Wishes, dreams unfulfilled? It has truly all been said before and written better than I ever could.
I feel most comfortable writing about IBD so I think I'll start there although that means going back much further. Into the wayback machine we go.
Cliche 2: So what?
Cliche 3: It's all been said before.
I attempted to write a book years ago. You remember books; tightly bound sheets of paper memorializing that which one viewed as important during some critical period of time. Never finished it. Never finished a lot of things: my education, my climb up the corporate ladder, numerous diets, and many unimportant tasks.How do I make this valuable, not just my rantings? Public or private? Share or no?
Funny stories. Sure, I have lots. Famous people. I've met some. Are they important? Should this be about my ongoing fight with Crohn's Disease? My family now and before? Wishes, dreams unfulfilled? It has truly all been said before and written better than I ever could.
I feel most comfortable writing about IBD so I think I'll start there although that means going back much further. Into the wayback machine we go.
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