' Oh These Damned Intrusions By A Base, Unwanted World '

' Oh These Damned Intrusions By A Base, Unwanted World '

03/17/12

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn...

Oh to my most very dear, dear friends, and, ever-loyal, constant readers,
Because I am disabled, often in near, unbearable pain from a direassortment of illness piled on illness, and having-in addition-panic attacks, depression, and a most severe agoraphobia, my days, especially my waking hours are particularly odd, despite the medication, but precious to me; my sleeping times are most elusive, malleable, and too often, ‘catch-as-catch-can'.

And so-by default, and by design-I long ago abandoned living a ‘nine-to-five' existence. The only way I can even attempt to describe my schedule-now-is to imagine it as some greyed chessboard, free yet of men, stretching, under grey and blackened clouds, to a horizon that is lost by failed perception, times ten, to infinity.

It may also take on the appearance of some giant, calendar-like grid, with markings as the days go by, with notations for physician appointments, reminders, and a limited list of necessary, ‘things-to-do'. And thus is how my days are ordered, when-in fact-there really is no order to be found.

My mind and body schedule is more like 24/7, around the clock, endlessly; for though I try valiantly to stay awake during the ‘day', and sleep at ‘night, such is not always the case.

My dear friends know when I am generally available, though-to them-I am pledged to be available any time, should they need me. And should they ever be in peril, or sleeplessness themselves, or nearly lost in some nightmare, or despairing, should they ever need to call me at, say, 4:30 AM, I want them to know they can, and I would welcome it, grateful for their kind, and lasting friendship; in truth-for them-what little else could I but do?

However, quite apart from friendship's need, the world revolves around a steady, ‘nine-to-five' schedule of doing business as usual. And so entrenched in this modus are these individuals, firms, and governments, that they think that everyone must live as do they. And so, the glut of telephone calls begin precisely at one minute after eight AM (or earlier !), and continue with an irritating, pounding, relentlessness until closing time by five, six at the latest.

And while I can hardly hope to synchronize their clocks to mine, I can still resent it, particularly for ‘stupid' calls, and heartily regret I cannot simply switch my ringers off, which I would do, except-again-in case a friend should need me.

These are but an example of the telephone's ringing intrusion however much unwanted:
1) ‘Robot' calls that ring, and ring, and ring, to tell me of a prescription's refill; or a candidate's canned speech; or ‘cold' calls to buy a product, or, contribute to a ‘worthy' cause. These robot calls cannot be terminated by simply hanging up, but continue ‘till their end.
2) Humans who call to remind me of a physician's appointment that I am already too-well aware of.
3) Even though I cannot silence the ring, I do have caller I.D. And, how many times have I been called by someone named, ‘unknown', who cannot be called back. I think this represents complete and utter cowardice, and causes me to grit my teeth.
4) ‘Prank' calls at all hours, juvenile in nature.
5) And at about the same level, transparent, and sometimes not so transparent attempts to scam me; just what I need: someone else to part me from my money.

And while unaccustomed to using profanity on the telephone (or, in fact, elsewhere, though I have, when-for instance-I have accidentally dropped a roll of paper towels, or foil, or toilet paper, to see it wind its way across the floor, across the room, especially if I happen to be low on such commodities near the end of the month), or of slamming the telephone receiver down without a word, I must admit, my dearest friends, that I have often thought of getting one of those yacht horns on an aerosol can, to blast the more stupid, pointless of these callers into a momentary deafness; I know I'm being childish, but, as difficult as it is to find, I do detest having my hard-won sleep destroyed by idiots.

No better example of this could I but mention occurred-now-yesterday.

I had retired to bed late, with too much on too tiny a mind, and, even with a sleeping pill, lay there, impossible to find that one, ‘sweet spot' that did not agonize me, all the while, turning as if on a rotisserie of pain, sheets, and coverlets and linens a maze, with me somewhere hidden inside.

And when sleep finally arrived, Mr. Sandman was apparently out of sand, for sleep did not last, but was punctuated by teeming nightmare, chills and nighttime sweats, headache, at least two bathroom calls, until-at about 3:30 AM (when all good people should have been a bed, snoring royally like kings), my loving dog, Daisy, decided that she needed out.

And so, giving all up as lost, I sat out in the kitchen, at the counter, waiting for her return, and having a sighed, and sorry sip of tea, and the requisite two cigarettes, when, after-as is usual-I fell asleep until just minutes past 5 AM.

To my dismay, again, as it has occurred before, I awoke wracked with early morning chills, a hundred points of pain, a headache that was like a railroad spike driven over my nose, and between my eyes, until they blurred, and ( this part scares me a little), The front door was unlocked and open by about two feet, and, as you might guess, Daisy was soundly asleep on the living room rug, snoring as I SHOULD have been, lost in her doggy dreams, content, and replete.

I paused to thank God that my neighborhood is not more crime-ridden as, what better way to welcome an intruder than with an open door, and me asleep!

My eyes ached in such sympathetic pain, that when I turned to see the kitchen clock, the numbers were too blurry that for a short while, I could not have said I even had my glasses on.

To the floor, as always, were the magazines, and bills, and paperwork I had left on the counter to attend to the next day. I hardly cared as I, moaning and groaning, sobbing to my pulse and to my pain, staggered to where my medications are, and took double my pain medications, plus three Excedrin, and in shutting, and locking the front door, and turning out the kitchen lights, gently patted Daisy to wake her, and to follow me, as I returned to bed.

There are times, my dearest friends, when all else simply ceases to matter or to have any consequence, except for the desire to sleep, far past the need for sleep; and so, in remaking my bed, I gratefully crawled into it, not caring about the errant dawn, or of the day. For then, had I been able to sleep solidly for even ten hours, I would have, and been glad to do so.

The house was yet darkened and quiet; Daisy was already well into doggie-theta sleep on the carpet beside my bed. A friend had given me a small, ‘Franklin-stove' style, electric fireplace I had placed in my bedroom; its glowing, warm, and reassuring light was balanced by three L.E.D., battery-powered pillar candles atop my studio, upright piano...yes, dear friends, I have a piano in my bedroom, as I have no room for it in either the living room, or my embryonic Study, and, although it will no longer hold a tune, or be played, yet, it has enormous sentimental value for me, having been given to me by my mother and father when we lived in France; inside the casework is printed ‘Verdun', the French town in which I was born, now fifty-eight years ago.

So with my glasses off, and with the pain medication settling in, and me, warmed up again, and under linens that smelled of roses, with all that, and watching the flickering, little globs of light, I oh so slowly relaxed, happy in my little house, and with my little dog, and hating no one, slowly drifted off to sleep, not caring when I woke, as the day was to be an ‘off' day for me.

My dear, and most lovingly regarded friends, I cannot in full describe what an excellent sleep is like, as it so seldomly occurs. And one remarked by pleasant, happy dreams. At my age, and disposition, and illness, such an untroubled and deep sleep, plus harmless dreaming is so rare as to be a very gift from a merciful God.

And on I slept for perhaps four hours, until the telephone beside me dragged me, unwillingly by it persistent, and unwelcome ringing that went on and on and on, past my still-hopeful prayer that it would stop.

Now, I am from an age when the ringing of the telephone at any time during the night inevitably meant bad news: that someone in the family had died, usually. And so, by habit, it finally, and with success startled me awake, all thoughts of sleep thrown away, only to find an insistent caller with a message that could well have waited until much later in the morning; in fact, it was so very unnecessary that I cannot even recall-now-- what it was about.

It angered me, and saddened me, to have to leave possibly the very best sleep I have had in weeks and weeks. And for what?

At three AM, when ‘I' was awake, I could, but would not be so cruel as to telephone them: they who slumbered without effort, probably, without pain, without restlessness, or bathroom calls?

But who, at one second after eight, felt a need to dispense with business matters as quickly as possible, before-even-their office was even open?

No wonder that I'm always tired, almost always grumpy, always peeved, with later not wanting to do anything. I often, now, recall much younger years, before all THIS, when, whatever time I went to bed, I went to sleep, and slept the night, with few interruptions, the entire night until the morning; for me, Mr. Sandman had at his disposal limitless apparent sand, as whenever I did have to get up, if was to yawn, and rub the ‘sand' from my eyes.

And never gave it a second's thought that it would ever be as otherwise.

For now, there are NO bedtime tales, no goodnight kiss from mom and dad, no quick brushing back my hair with their hands, no being tucked in, no backwards glance as they paused to turn off the bedroom light. Even when they gently shut the door, I still could see that warming bar of light from under the door, and the faint sounds of my parent's voices to know that they were there, and on some happy, inchoate, childhood level, knew that I was protected, and that I was secure, and mostly, that I was loved.

At fifty-eight, I have long-since learned that things change, time changes, people change, situations and events change. And to that adult revelation, I now know that indifference, and pain that never ends work changes, too.

What hasn't changed besides whatever aspirations one's heart, and mind, and soul can lay claim to, is the need for food, the need for a more complete and lasting respite from pain or despairing, or loss, the need for sleep.....and the need...for love.

I wish for you, my very dearest friends days of lessened, or of ‘NO' pain; comfort, and the sufficient funds to be comfortable; a pantry full with enough to share; the vigilance to report abuse. I wish you wonderful days, surrounded by those who truly love you, and care for you; breezy afternoons, and the wonderment of Spring; evenings of quiet and satisfaction; and nights, oh, my dear friends, nights of blissful and untroubled sleep, with soft and gentle dreams, and, as always, watched over, and kept safe by ministering angels.

I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'/Charles