"Daisy: 'Grateful THanks'; 'Test Results'; 'Medication Follies'; 'The Truly Inexplicable', And: 'How Many Dogs Am I?'"

 

 

“Daisy: ‘Grateful Thanks’; ‘Test Results’; ‘Medication Follies’; ‘The Truly Inexplicable’, And ; ‘How Many Dogs Am I?’”

 

 

09/26/12

 

 

To my very, very dearest friends, and ever-loyal, caring readers,

 

I cannot in near-full measure ever thank you enough for all the wonderfully kind and sympathetic comments, ‘hugs’, PMs, cards, and telephone calls, inquiring about both my Daisy’s health and progress…and mine; your prayers, wishes, suggestions, fond hopes, and your continued caring brings both tears to the eyes, and a gladness to my heart!

 

I really do not know how I would be able to cope during this most difficult time without you; you have—as you always have—been ever ‘there’ for me, and now for little Daisy.

 

And I am, moreover, most grateful for your continued encouragement and support during these difficult times. 

 

For I know that so many of you—my dearest friends—are (or have)—experienced the same things that I and Daisy are going-though now.

 

And yet…never have you made me to feel stupid or maudlin, or overly possessive; and your thoughtfulness gives me strength and a genuine comfort that helps guide and direct me, and, your concern, thoughts, and prayers for Daisy prove to be a most effective anodyne against uncertainty, impending sense of loss, and to help guide Daisy and I at this immutable time of depression, sadness, and feelings of helplessness.

 

‘Daisy’s lab work results, and Dr. Weston’s evaluation of Daisy’s current health’:

 

When Dr. Weston telephoned me late the other night with the results of Daisy’s lab work, the second I heard the good doctor’s voice, I went—immediately—into a panic attack, in anticipation of the worst.

 

And, as might be expected, some of the values were abnormally high, or low.  Daisy’s liver enzymes were quite high; but Dr. Weston said that there was no need to panic—yet—as her liver enzymes were probably elevated owing to age, the pain, and arthritis medications Daisy is on.

 

Her potassium level was a little high, so the Dr. decided to have me give Daisy her potassium pill every other day, instead of every day.

 

Her thyroid value was only very slightly elevated, which Dr. Weston attributed to Daisy’s age, and not something to worry about just yet.

 

Everything else was yawningly normal!  And I had anticipated the, ‘comprehensive metabolic panel’, that had been ordered would show that all or most of the values to be horribly askew, and typical of an ailing dog who was possibly soon to perish!

 

In fact, Dr. Weston told me that when I had telephoned her to come out to see Daisy, she was fully prepared to initiate the process of having Daisy put to sleep.

 

However, after a good two-hour visit, and evaluation, Dr. Weston told me that Daisy seemed to be reacting well to her medications, and—in fact—looked more spry that when she was seen on the last visit.

 

Realistically—though—that is not to say that because of Daisy’s age might also, and with little or no warning, succumb to a heart attack, cancer, or from a stroke.

 

I cannot help but feel guardedly relieved for now, anyway, though I want to spend as much ‘quality’ time with Daisy as I can, and to continue to give her her medications, as they do seem to be helping.

 

‘Medication Follies’:

 

 

Dr. Weston suggested that she schedule a partial lab work redraw in three months, just to make sure the medications are working well.

 

What probably should not surprise me is just how expensive ‘pet’ medicine can be! Daisy’s medication tab—monthly—is at least $160.00, or more.  A month’s supply of Tramadol (which I give Daisy to help relieve her pain) just cost me $75.00.  And the Cyproheptadine (which—for me—is an anti-histamine I take once a day, at night, to help me breath better, and for Daisy—who takes it twice a day—is used to stimulate her appetite), just cost me $37.50.  Whereas my prescription for the same drug is only $6.00!

 

So…when I was visited—today—by my Primary (who still makes ‘house calls’), I asked her if she would kindly consider changing MY prescription from one, once a day, to three, daily; that way, I can still take my one at bedtime, and Daisy can have her two.  That change—alone—will save me $31.50 a month.

 

‘Even in a ‘down-turned, lousy economy’, I firmly believe that Veterinarians and their Clinics will always manage quite nicely; for one, their prices are NOT cheap, and secondly, even poor people will continue to spend money on their pets, even if they have to do without elsewhere.  And I understand, and accept that.

 

 

 Would you allow an innocent child to suffer? While the two are completely different, those of us who have no children—but who DO have pets—often very much feel the same way.

 

After all, this November 17^th. Is Daisy’s arbitrary birthday; by that time, she will have been with me for thirteen years! Thirteen years of unquestioning love, protection, and companionship.

 

Made even more special as Daisy—in escaping from a horribly abusive situation—decided that she would trust my late mother and me, and find, here, a sense of peace…and love…ever and always free from the specter of abuse or pain.

 

When she adopted us, the vet said that she might have already been 1.5 to 2.5 years old.  Dogs will very rarely voluntarily leave a situation.  So, it is both difficult and heart-rending to imagine how very great the abuse was, to drive her away from her owner, to stay with us.

 

When she first came to us, Daisy had obviously been on the ‘run’ for some time.  She had lost huge patched of fur; her tail looked thin and ratty, as did her ears.

 

Someone…taken a bat to her, and had knocked out all her upper and lower front teeth.  And she was SO thin.  You could see her ribs, and the ‘bumps’ that outlined her spine.  She was jaundiced, starving (having had to prowl-through garbage cans for food), and she was unbelievable filthy, alive with fleas, and covered with sores.

 

She was very wary of me, even as I fed her, although I must say that she almost immediately took to my late mother (who was eighty-two at the time). It was my mom who gave Daisy her name, and, sometime before she bonded with me, Daisy was as a lap dog to my mother, and would follow mom everywhere, never letting mom out of her sight.

 

Even before Daisy was—at last—returned to a state of good health, proper care, and proper nutrition, we began to let Daisy stay in the house at night, when the winter’s wind turned colder.

 

I well-remember when mom would sit in her recliner to watch television, Daisy would crawl under the lamp table to be near her; mom would reach down through the arm of the chair to pet Daisy, and would often croon to her, calling Daisy little pet names such as, ‘My little pussycat’, or, ‘My little pussy willow’, or mom would sing little songs to her; Daisy would just eat that shit up.

 

And when my mother would go to bed at night, Daisy was right beside her, sleeping on the rug next to mom’s bed.

 

In those days with Daisy, me, she tolerated as I was the bringer of food; it was mom whom she adored.

 

But with my mother’s passing in 2008, Daisy knew our little ‘pack’ had been seriously reduced, and for weeks, she would run from place to place in the house, or, out in the yard, looking for my mom.

 

Of course, during, and after that time, my own health has seriously declined.  And now, it is Daisy who ‘takes care’ of me!  Every time I get up and move, Daisy is right there; should I be in the bathroom, Daisy will walk back and forth by the open door to look in on me; on many an occasion, she has come into the bathroom to lie down by the sink.  And for a long time—now—whenever I do go to bed, Daisy is right there, curled up on the rug besides my bed.

 

Of course, now, I call her my own pet names, which she does seem to enjoy, and I do think that dogs can be happy, and that they can smile; and it lights-up my heart to see her smile!

 

‘The truly inexplicable’:

 

This is very strange, my dearest, patient and wonderful friends, and something for which I have no ready answer, and which—in hindsight—just baffles me.

 

When Daisy adopted us, I knew that she had to have had a previous owner, although—in my heart—to see Daisy in such a neglected, and horrible condition, I cursed whoever had done this to her, causing her to leave her situation, or—as also might have been the case—to have merely been ‘dropped off’, taken for a ride into the countryside, and there pushed out to have to fend for herself.

 

While either scenario was sickeningly unacceptable, still, I did feel obliged to place ads should the true owner be looking for her.

 

What I got were strange telephone calls, sullen, angry calls, and a few responses that were just demanding and/or weird.  In a short while I gave up, in part because I did not want to return Daisy to such a potentially abusive situation, and, also because she had already found a place within our hearts.

 

Now, every year—in THIS County, anyway, whenever dogs (or cats, too, I guess) get their rabies shots, they are given a special tag to wear on their collars, that lists an assigned number to the pet, and also included the telephone number to the County’s Animal Control Department.

 

This accomplishes two things:

1)           The tag (marked with the current year) shows that the animal has received the most recent rabies injection; the tag is a different color, every year.

2)           That anyone—upon finding a stray animal—can telephone the County’s Animal Control, who can look up, and notify an owner where their dog is, and from whom it may be picked up.

 

About two years ago—now—I happened to be thinking about how grateful we were that Daisy found us to adopt.

 

But here’s the weird part.  Suddenly, I remembered that when Daisy first came to stay with us, she DID happen to be wearing a collar, with just such a I.D. tag on it.

 

Frankly, I could have just telephoned Animal Control, and they would have located Daisy’s prior owner, who then could have come to the house and just taken her away with them again.

 

I must have seen that tag a hundred times, my dearest friends, but not once did it ever occur to me that it would have located Daisy’s previous owner.  The thought never, ever occurred to me.

 

So why was I so blinded and stupid?  I generally pay more attention to detail than that.

 

I decided that such knowledge was hidden from me on purpose, or—more probably—that deep within my heart (which almost always overrules the mind!), I did not want to return Daisy to an abuser.  And…that my mom and I wanted her to stay with us!

 

Otherwise, I have NO explanation for my not having taken any action, regarding her return.  Perhaps you—my dearest friends—will be able to solve an almost eleven year old mystery!

 

‘How many dogs am I?’:

 

My dearest friends, and loyal readers, should you visit my ‘Profile’ here at MDJunction, and scroll-down to the photographic gallery, below, you will see two pictures of Daisy, “The best dog on the planet!”.

 

After looking at her pictures, would you not—perhaps—think of her to be a ‘Border Collie/Mix’?  That is truly what I had thought for a decade, at least.

 

But, about two years—ago, when I happened to have more money that ever I do now!—I paid about $57.00, along with two cheek swabs to a lab to assay Daisy’s D.N.A., and thus, reveal her breed(s).

 

The results listed, in order of percentage, up to four, different breeds, listing them as: 1) 40% or more of D.N.A.; 30% or more of D.N.A.; 20% or more; and then 10% or less of D.N.A.

 

The results, dear friends, were not even remotely what I might have suspected, and—frankly—dumbfounded me, with surprise, and laughter.  Believe it or not…here they are:

1)           40% of D.N.A…..Shar Pei

2)           30%     “               Chow

3)           20%     “               German Shepherd

4)           10%     “                Poodle

 

Only by looking very closely at the shape of her mouth, can I detect any Chow in her.

And, now that she has been shaved severely to allow me to better treat her dry and itchy, allergic skin, do—at last—I detect the wrinkles on her forehead, and on the back of her neck evident of any Shar Pei in her.

And…maybe her shanks do slightly resemble those of the Shepperd.

 

Most recently, I happened—in passing—to mention this to the good Dr. Weston.  And what she told me absolutely astounded me.

 

To wit, that the Poodle is the longest lived animal, in general; apparently, the other, three breeds have life spans that range—usually—only from around eight to eleven years.

 

The startling implication was that if Daisy is—in truth—actually 14.5 to 15.5 (this Nov. 17^th), then she is indeed fortunate to have inherited her longevity from the Poodle D.N.A. in her.  Otherwise—and quite naturally so—she might have died some six or seven years ago…something I never knew before, and would never have considered!

 

So…in addition to love, care, and the will of our Savior!, I have the 10% of Poodle D.N.A. to thank for Daisy surviving all these extra years!

 

I feel that that has already given me an extra six or more years with my dearest, canine companion, Daisy!

 

And in my secret heart of hearts, dearest friends, what I now choose to believe is that Daisy was allowed to live during and past the time when my wonderful mother became ill, and died on February 8, 2008, to protect me, and keep me safe, and to stay with me so I won’t feel so alone.

 

Oh, I know that the end will come when it is supposed to.  And that—along the way—there will be bumps and shocks, and a hundred scares.

 

But as long as Daisy continues to eat well, and drink well, responses well to her medications, and does not seem to be in intractable, prolonged pain, and…as long as she can still ‘arf’ at me, and wag her tail, rolling over to be scratched, staying with me in my Study even as I write these diary entries, and as she sleeps on the rug beside my bed each night, and appears to be in no distress…I will always love her, and continue as best I can to make her happy, well-fed, and comfortable and well taken care of, enjoying every, blessed moment I still have with her!

 

My very, very dearest and kind friends, I think of you so often, and wish for you no pain, or much, much lessened pain, and no distress or despair.

I wish wonderful days for you, in-full surrounded by love, care, and attention.  I wish for you plenty, without need or want.

And, I wish you balmy nights of blissful sleep, safe, and secure.  And watched over by gentle angels.

 

And, please, please always know I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"A Paean For The Weary, A Poem For The Sleepless"

 

 

 

“A Paean For The Weary, A Poem For The Sleepless”

 

 

09/23/11

 

 

To my very precious friends, and constant, loyal readers,

 

As ever again, I must ask for your most kind forgiveness, my sweet friends, as I have been so very tired of late, and from a want of genuine and refreshing sleep, have been rendered seriously dull-witted, and insensate; words come to me not easily, nor can I—with any facility—try to compose an entry worthy of your wonderful attention.

 

Yesterday, for good example, I had spent—perhaps—three hours at the computer, in trying to write an entry to submit to you. 

 

I could not have been but a few sentences shy of completing my entry, when—owing, probably to this dammed neuropathy in my hands and fingers—I inadvertently hit the wrong key, and lost…everything!

 

My good friend and cousin is supposed to visit me, tomorrow, during which time we go-over the mistakes I make on the computer, as well as preparing for me a most delicious lunch!

 

Sometime ago, he installed a program called, “Dragon”, whereby one can—with practice—simply speak into a microphone to have it translated to the computer screen!

 

Of course—dear friends—at the beginning, anyway, what is spoken, and what is ‘written’ are often two, entirely different and bizarre things!  In an attempt for the program to make sense of the spoken word, the results are often hilariously funny!  And, as you know, frequently our conversations are punctuated by, ‘ahs, ers, ‘you knows’, and others; all these things are translated to the computer screen, and—of course—necessitate several editings to remove the silliness.

 

However, friends, since my hands and fingers no longer can be relied-upon to not vaporize an entry, I believe that I will try that ‘spoken’ program to see how it looks.

 

Meanwhile, I hardly need tell you that last night’s sleep was no sleep at all being too full of disquieting nightmares, problems with my nasal O-2 cannula, and the odd wakefulness. 

 

And that—still tired—I awoke to such breathtaking agony, that I gladly doubled-up on my pain medication.  And, while waiting for it to evidence some effect, I got Daisy’s meds ready for her, and gave them to her with her fighting all the way.

 

I must tell you that Daisy seems to be getting much benefit from all her medicines, and Dr. Weston said that—all things considered—that Daisy was doing quite well, and has—in unusual fact (about which, more later in another post) lived four or five years longer than is typically found in the conjugate of breed genetics that makes Daisy the loving, hard-headed, wonderful canine companion she is.

 

And so—dear friends, and ever-loyal readers—I shall close today’s entry by repeating a poem, that—I think—is my ‘all-time, personal favorite’.

 

What it seeks to address is the need for, the yearning, and keening for completely restful sleep, as much for depression, sadness, and the desire—in sleep—to hide safely from the world and all its ills, and the plaintive regret when such sleep will not come.

 

It is my fondest hope that you may find that it tries to address the feelings we all who ail must surely have, certainly, among them, needless insomnia, and the daily weariness that it confers.

 

I wish you a most pleasant, and pain-free day, and a quiet start of the coming week.

 

And, please always know that I love you dearly!

 

" Where Corals Lie : A Rhapsody On A Theme By Sir Edward Elgar "

 

I lie stretched out against the sand, while up above the sky--a lum'nous band--pales leaden at the close of day. Sleep comes not as a quiet slumbering, but as a measured death; I feel each part of me give up its hold on life and drift away. A gentle mist surrounds, the breath becomes a shadowed fog. I close my eyes and go to where--as Elgar says--the corals lie.

My memory’s palette fades, the color die, the silent patterns sway. All senses shade in black and deeper grey. I would go there and hide, a quiet thing, my own Self vibrant with the crashing waves is drawn out with the passing tide.

I settle deep as deep the sea. I downward drift to where the kelp beds beckon me with siren's song along the coral'd rift.

Above, the depth of sea spans all around, a measureless eternity. So vast a place, that I expand to fill all space, and lying there, become the sea.

And swift it seems I pass the night. Too soon I feel drawn up to where the surface breaks, a panoply of tossing waves, and scintillating rays of light. Too soon I must forsake my sleep, returning to a world that wants me not; it wrenches me unbidden from the comfort of the deep and restless sea.

Oh, must I rouse myself, and blindly seek that alien shore ? When I would shun its cruel design, and would at last return once more, to seek my rest among the cool, dark valleys of the deep. And there, reclaim myself, my solitude, my peace in silent sleep.

 

End

 

 

 'Zahc'/Charles

"Daisy And Life, In General: Sometimes--Quite Unexpectedly--Things...Just...Happen"

 

“Daisy And Life, In General: Sometimes—Quite Unexpectedly—Things…Just…Happen”

 

 

09/20/12

 

 

To my very precious friends, and always constant readers,

 

Today I just feel tired; tired and exhausted.  Bankrupt emotionally, and so very dull-witted of mind that even simple ideations will not come.  And all I want to do is stay in bed, covered-up, tuckered in, listening to the sound of my box fan as it stirs the air; it is a sound that competes with the mechanical susurrus of the compressor as it cycles-away to send life-giving oxygen through twenty-five feet of green tubing which is attached to a seven foot long, nasal cannula, which I wear almost every second of every day.

 

 

Sometimes, the house is SO quiet that even the absence of noise produces a perceptible sound that is felt—more than heard—by the ears.

 

I cannot in truth admit to being angry, happy, sad, or really…anything.  Perhaps this emotive ‘shutdown’ is the mind’s way of protecting itself from auto-destruct.

 

It could also be something of an anti-inertia, whereby, when—for example—life problems become too large, or too many, leaving one unprepared, and—consequently unable—to make accurate decisions as a way to solve them…ever to solve them, and…to move on to the next round of problems.

 

Occasionally, there’s just too much negative stimuli flying about.  And so—there being no one or best way to encompass and deal with the unexpected (thrown in with all that is expected, and routine—sometimes the mind—for its own safety’s sake—closes in upon itself, coping, by refusing to consider really anything of moment.

 

And that is more or less how I feel today; this diary entry, for example, has been almost painfully difficult to think upon, or to write.  At times words—themselves—do not look right; they do not sound right.  And sometimes, they do not sound at all.  And so it becomes a titanic effort merely to link them together, one by one, by two, forming sentences, weaving paragraphs, crocheting thoughts here and there into an entire document.

 

Oddly-enough, it is not in any way due to my constant pain, for that waxes and wanes with the hour.

 

But, dearest friends, and loyal readers, I think I can isolate a recent set of incidents that have left me in the present shape that I am in.

 

From last week, over the weekend, and into the first part of this week, my loving canine companion—Daisy—seemed to have gone into a marked state of decline.  I had made an appointment the Dr. Weston (the mobile vet) to come out to see her, but, just before, I cancelled, postponing the appointment to yesterday, as I was not sure of myself, and so often in the past, read too much into a situation.  And I was worried and upset 1) because Daisy did not look good, and, 2) because—frankly, as it was still before the middle of the month—I did not have ready financial resources to pay for her visit.

 

This ‘watching and waiting’ just killed me, my dearest friends.  I felt horrible and guilty, and quite unable to do anything to help Daisy myself.

 

This past Monday leading into Tuesday, Daisy seemed—to me—to have gotten much, much worse; she ate, but irregularly, and on Tuesday—in particular—I did not see her drink any water at all.  I did still continue to give her her medications, in fact, giving her more pain medication, and more tranquilizer to calm her.

 

November 17^th is Daisy’s arbitrary birthday; that is about when she adopted my late mother and me in 1999.  When I took her to the vet, he said he wasn’t sure, but that Daisy might have been 1.5 to 2.5 years old by the time she came to us.

 

My dear friends, life was SO very different in those days.  My mother—at eighty-two—was home, happy, and free of health problems.

 

I was still employed full time, working the night shift at a small, geriatric, residential treatment facility in town.  I would not become deathly ill, and in subsequent lasting and intractable pain until July 4, 2002.

 

My wonderful father had passed away in December of 1998, and mom and I were still grieving his loss, and lived quietly—all three of us—having settled into a sort of reliable routine that, although it may have been clockwork, still, was undemanding, ‘safe’, and secure.

 

That was the effective end—for me—of the ‘golden time’ in my life…or, in retrospect, how golden it seemed in comparison to the present!

 

And while there are many things I have never understood regarding some of Daisy’s behaviors, I think I can aver—with acuity—know when she is in pain, or is hurting.  Often, just by the ‘way’ she would ‘look’ at me.  Of course, I have always take these looks to mean, “Daddy, quick, please come and help me feel better!”. At least in my imaginings, that is what I believe she would try to say.

 

And—over the ensuing years—I do think I have done my best to take care of her, and to provide for her needs. Only time, and—hopefully—a kinder God will decide.

 

So when Daisy began looking especially awful this time (about which, I could no nothing but stress and worry), I could hardly wait for Dr. Weston and her assistant to come to the house to examine my dear, little ‘Dais’.

 

Frankly, my dearest friends, I fully expected that the good doctor would say that it was ‘time’ to have Daisy put down.

 

Emotionally, and without doubt—selfishly—I was torn and upset.  While I did not, nor do not ever want Daisy to have to suffer needlessly, yet, I am too accustomed to her companionship, and, maybe I am—at last—afraid to be alone. And, it must be said that with Daisy’s passing, truly, everyone close to me whom I love would now be gone.

 

And, with each passing…first, my dad, then my mom, I feel somehow spiritually diminished in a way that is difficult to describe; its almost like special parts of my heart have been removed.  Shit…I don’t know.

 

After an almost two-hour visit, and evaluation, Dr. Weston again said she thought that Daisy was indeed on a slow decline, and that—in time, but a non-specific time!—Daisy might succumb to a heart attack, or to cancer, or to a stroke.

 

Dr. Weston did find evidence of an ear infection, and a possible urinary tract infection, for which she prescribed ear drops, and an antibiotic sufficient to cure either infection.

 

She also refilled Daisy’s scripts of heart medication, and for her pain pills, and tranquilizers.  In addition, she gave me three, brand new syringes (without needles), so I can crush the medications, and administer them in a liquid through the syringe.

 

According to the doctor, Daisy’s gait was much improved, and that she seemed to be responding very well to the medications.

 

Last night, Daisy ate better (though not as much as I’d like…and, BTW, Dr. Weston also prescribed a medication for Daisy that should improve her appetite; the funny thing is, is that its one of the same medications I take, only—for me—it is an antihistamine!), and drank frequently from her water bowl, and made a number of trips—outside—to pee, and other duties.

 

And, so, once again, we are in a ‘watch-and-wait’ mode.

 

And, Dr. Weston drew blood from Daisy for a comprehensive metabolic panel, which includes her liver, pancreas, thyroid, glucose, kidneys, red, and white-blood cell count, and electrolytes.

 

Admittedly, none of this is inexpensive. This morning I calculated that yesterday’s visit, plus exam, plus lab work, plus medication, plus two new bags of treats (that Daisy loves!), will more than equal 54% of my next month’s S.S.D.I check!

 

I am already reeling from having been depressed, sad, and weary about my thoughts of life without my Daisy.

 

Add—now—to that my most profound concerns of just ‘how-in-the-utter-Hell’, are ‘we’ going to survive October?

 

I did what any desperate, upper-lower-class citizen would do: I threw all the charges on my credit card, on which there already were charges for medications, physician co-pays, medications (for both man and dog!), the cost of having had Daisy groomed, and, some much-needed groceries!

 

My dearest, truest friends, should you care to (or can stand to) review my diary entry entitled. “Where DOES The Money GO!?”, you will have a good idea of how and where my income ‘goes’ each month; pretty much how I imagine that for so many of you—here at MDJunction—your’s probably goes as quickly, and as well.

 

Strangely, this whole, ‘hand-to-mouth’ shit is something I had never, ever expected, and, it is living (?) at a level of subsistence far, far below what I could ever have imagined it would be. And, I do not think much of anything I ave purchased could be considered feckless, or really impulsive! Frankly…it is killing me.  I am always depressed, and very rarely happy.

 

In such a State of uncertainty, how could any, sustainable joy be found?

 

In the past, I have been both flush, and broke; certainly, often-enough to know that I prefer being ‘flush’!  All my life, I have always valued a roof over my head more—even—than having food in the house.  Especially when I was much younger, and living on my own, I could endure a growling stomach more than I could the thought of having to live out in the streets.

 

Once, I recall an entire year---almost—during which I had NO food in my duplex. After graduation, I was employed full time night shift at a private, psychiatric hospital.

 

Since the cafeteria was closed at night, the kitchen would send up to each unit a tray of sliced bread, lunchmeat, lettuce, and tomato slices, and little packs of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. THAT, was my ‘supper’.

 

In the morning—after shift—I could go through the cafeteria line, and get two scoops of scrambled eggs for twenty cents, and two pieces of toast, for ten cents.

 

And that...was that.  And I wasn’t the only worker on the night shift who thus survived on the hospital’s largesse!

 

I still can remember when I finally in a financial position to really go grocery shopping!  By then, it almost seemed unusual to actually have food in the house.

 

Last evening, my ‘supper’ consisted of two packs of ‘beef-flavored’ “Raman” noodles, and—friends—I was grateful to have had that; I am not exactly incognizant of the millions and millions—across the space of this globe—who are starving, and have no shelter, nor access to any kind of health care at all.

 

But, my dearest friends, this is America…and please forgive my stupidity in expecting something more!  From myself, from society, from or culture…certainly, from our aggregated wealth.  Certainly from a system I worked in for years, and gladly contributed to for the continued welfare of our citizens.

 

Part of the reason why I feel so outdone, and ‘spacey’ is naturally the concerns of not having a financial ‘cushion’ to back upon in an emergency.

 

Too, it would seem particularly worrisome having no idea how I shall make it through the next month.

 

But, dear friends, what staggers me with concern, and outright fear is: what about six months from now?  Two years from now?  Ten years from now?  Or…until I am no longer able to care for myself, or, until I croak?

 

In a moment of idleness some time ago, I happened to be reading comments on Yahoo from posters re: the ability to buy, maintain, and keep a home in America.

 

As you might guess—considering it was on ‘Yahoo’—that posts ran from the gleefully, self-promoting, to the skewed-political, to the—frankly—unhinged.  But—amid the drivel, I recall a post that said something to the effect of: “I am on S.S.D.I., and yet, managed to save up, and buy a home.”

 

Really, now.  On what planet?  Those individuals whom I have met who are disabled, and on S.S.D.I. are much too busy trying to make each nickel shit eight pennies. Or, for those of you more delicate of heart, of ‘trying to squeeze each nickel, until the Indian on one side is riding the Buffalo on the other!’

 

With the exception—perhaps—of that famous, 10%, who have skads, and skads of cash; old money; senile grandmothers, and idiot grandchildren, frankly, I believe that everyone is hurting in one way or another, and all are stressed, all are confused.  And many a household is marked by contention, argument, or insurrection.

 

I, and, many others like me are just a little bit nearer the edge of the cliff, perhaps.  The question remains: ‘shall we jump off…or shall be pushed?’

 

My dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers, what I would most like to request is your kind comments.  How DO you survive?  What must you live without? Are you comfortable?  How do you grocery shop, or purchase clothing, or other goods?  What are your financial priorities?  Are you in more debt than you can presently pay off in a month?  Six months?  A year?  What have you given up?  What have you retained?  Are you happy??????????

 

I very, very much rely upon your kind comments for guidance, direction, advice, possible solutions, or ways and means that—perhaps—have not occurred to me.

 

For now…my dear Daisy is holding her own, but—clearly—we cannot sustain many more vet visits at this price.

 

And…we still have the remainder of September to go through until the 3^rd, of October, when—once again, my little, S.S.D.I. check will arrive.

 

As always, I wish for you wonderfully pleasant, and balmy days, able to enjoy the weather as we move further into Autumn.

 

I wish you be in full-surrounded by friends and family members who love and treasure you for who you are.  I wish you safety, and security, and that your goods be plenty, and your tables full to overflowing.

 

I wish for you golden afternoons, free from worry or despair. I wish you be able to have ‘fun’ and enjoy life in full measure.

 

I wish you quiet, peaceful nights.  Freedom from pain or weariness, but—rather—to a soft dreaminess that comforts.  And a night of blissful and restorative sleep…as ever watched over, and kept safe by gentle angels.

 

I thank you, my dearest, dearest friends, and think of you often, and fondly!  I am ever grateful to you, and count you as one of my greatest blessings!

 

And, please always know that I love you very dearly!

 

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles