'Its 5:30 AM. "Where Am I ?"..."What Am I ?"...."Who Am I ?"

'Its 5:30 AM. " Where Am I ?"..." What Am I ?"..." Who Am I ?"'

Sep 25 2011

09/25/11
To my very, very dear friends, and ever-loyal readers,
I know I went to bed last night; I had earlier spoken witha dear friend, and signed off, as I was tired...so very tired, that I had begun to misspeak myself, and so, wishing her 'angels' as I always do, took my last medications, an extra gulp of diet tea, gathered up my dog, and then willingly, climbed into a freshly made and cool bed.
My medical Primary had lent to me one of those electric, Franklin stoves, and I turned om my right side ( the side that hurts less ), to look at the flickering lights, my 'nightlight'. and, after saying my prayers, managed to find that one, 'sweet spot', wherein I hurt less, and drifted off to sleep.
My dear friends, it should have lasted; it should have been sufficient; it should have been enough...more than enough, more than I deserve. I had hoped to rturm to that simulacrum of time long ago, in which sleep was quite taken for granted, as if it were some Right, not a precious privilege that is granted to some for but a short while, and then dissapears into the landscape of Life.
Two days ago, I had one of the worst Lupus/Fibro attacks that ever could remember. I evern wrote about it in an earlier diary entry. Inevitably, then, the next day would be spent, set on an emotionless 'auto-pilot', wherein the day slowly passed by, but body and brain having been bathed in fire, and of a torture so consu,ate, and so artfully crafted so as to be seemless in its totality.
For that kind of pain leaves behind mental anguish, and bodily weariness, both wreakage that piles upon the sand of existence. Yesterday, my mind was full of cotton, thoughts came slowly, or, not at all, and the body and all ached in a chord of remembrance.
More simply, and less decoratively put, that kind of pain, leaves behind it an hangover, as does alocohol, as do drugs, as does deep depression.
And, for some reason, last evening, I began to be afraid..of what, I can hardly say, except that it began as a nagging set of worries, and then increased until I was so afraid, that I thought I was having a panic attack.
I was suddenly afraid of everything: of being alone, of remembered pain, and the listlessness that followed,panic over money, worry about my dear dog, and fear of my appointment, this Monday, with my Pain Doctor; why ? Because I do not think that he believes me, and will take my medication away from me; because 'he' has the power to do so; and, that--somehow--my 'pain' is not valid, nor sufficient-enough to warrant treatment. I also dislike the way he rushs into the exam room, interogates me as if I had committed some crime, runs over my sentences, and, somehow, makes me a whiner, a supplicant, who has to beg for my new scripts. He threatens to withold them; he blames me for my weight, and lack of activity. In short, I am made to feel dimished, and dissmissed, and that, I am--besides-- a liar. I am beginng to dislike him. Why should he cause ne to fear ? Should this continue, I will be looking for another PM.
And so, my dearest friends ( and, please pardon me for digressing so ), I went to bed last night, not sleepy, really, in that that kind of wistful, dreamy, cosy, and warm feeling, but rather one that was just exhaution Prime.
And, within 90 minutes, I was awake , again, where I headed first, to the bathroom, and then out to the kitchen for a quick cigarette.
And the next thing I know, by raising my head like some blinking, sleepy snake, rising to seek warmth, to turn my head, to see that it was now 5:30 AM. The kitchen was, and is too bright, too cold; and I awoke head in arms, again, not quite knowing how I had gotten there, or, why I chose to sleep there when my bed is still inviting, and warm.
For I again awoke cold, with those empty, early morning hour chills; I hurt in an hundred, different places, and had an headache, besides; I had either dropped off my glasses, breaking them again. My lungs exhalled a frost of death, and my poor legs ached miserably to mid-thigh, to both spasm and cramps.
My back and shoulders are again alive with pain, and I quickly took two Morphine 25 mgd, and a Dilaudid 4 mg., and now, as Tom Snyder, in his long-ago late might television program, would say, whenever a commercial was due, " Sit back, and watch the magic pictures as they fly through the air." Not that in any way do I seek a fabled Xanadu, seen as if though some opiate haze, but, rather, my dearest, dearest friends, I long for some sense of inner quiet, and, from teeth-grinding pain, and sufferering, a respite, a pause, a decided moment in time during which such pain becomes a far-away concept, something concieved by a calculated mind, but never experienced.
For now...what sould have been a pleasant day ( and, one that I hope will continue to be so ), now it stetches before me like a prison sentence.
My very dear cousin is supposed to visit me--today, as it is Sunday--and help assemble some furniture I bought earlier; his kindness does not deserve my exhaution, nor of my literally yawning in his face, for that is both rude, and unappreciative.
And so my gentle friends and readers, please allow ne to close for now; for maybe, even as my face is as grey as is the dawn, I may yet be able to lie down ( in my bed ! ), and seek another hour or two of rest, which--hopefully--will sustain.
Again, I can never thank you enough for being my friends, and for your kindness and encouragement, your continued readership, all of which are as genine joys in my life.
I wish so for you that this Sunday will prove to be a day without pain, distress, or loneliness ! All my love, 'Zahc/Charles'

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" The Heart Bowed Down By Weight Of Woe "

"The Heart Bowed Down By Weight Of Woe..."

Sep 23 2011

09/23/11
Please, please forgive me, my dearest friends and gentle readers, for this morning--lasting, unchanged by the passing of the day--I again woke out in the kitchen at 10:30, cramped, sore, tired...and to a totallity of Pain so severe, that every exhalation is attended with a moan, part sigh, and part despair.
Bits of memory, thought, feelings, emotions encirlcle me, but so fast, that I cannot grasp even a part of one.
There is not one plce that is not afire in agony, from my scalp, that hurts in an alien way so that it does not even feel like my hair; with a pounding,and remorseless pain, so that I can hardly raise my head up, and that changes in my posture affect, bringing with it seering pain.
Oh..my deraest friends, this is a global pain that reaches t the very limits of what I perceive as my body space, but then beyond.
I pain with an animal's pain, that I cannot understand ( only in a kind of abstract, clinical way ), nor do I know how to deal with it, except to throw into its jagged, ravening mouth, handfuls of opiate medication.
I cannot cry; for one I have no tears left for myself, and my eyes already blur from pain, and refuse to focus; I have to touch my glasses justto ensure that they are there.
My neck, shoulders and back are no strong enough to ward of this evil onslaught.
I want nothing to eat, for the concurrent nausea. Even my legs feel alive, insettled, and 'crawling' as if full of worms.
I feel fully the weight of my years, I am alone...no one calls, nor stops by; I realize they have their own lives. Besides..they cannot in their experience even partially understand me.
My poor dog is quiet, near me, unable to understand the aura that is agony, yet, in her support, she stays near me. I only want this pain to go away, even as I reel--helplessly--before it the depth and breadth of it.
Oh, my sweet Savior come down from the cross, please help me; pease send your angels to rescue me, as now, I am gripped by a depression so calculatedly intense, that I am looking down a black Hole of nothingness, down into a pit of what must be Hell,
and, I long for my mother and father, for their kisses, and embraces and for their long arms that--outstretched--encircled me, and made everything 'alright'.
For...whether you may realize it not, you, my dearest friends and readers at MGJunction are my motive force; in your kindness, and encouragement, and support, it is YOU who help give me meaning and purpose; you have ever been most remarkable, in that--while doubtless, you are in pain--yet, you take your time, and effort to reach out to me, which I value as nothing less than miracle.
And for which, my most dear friends, and readers, you have my heart, and my undying gratetude.
Even as I most sicerely hope that my pain ebbs, although the depression may well remain until it cycles out of me, it nevertheless has always been my goal to try to help you, and to never lie to you.
Among the other, fleeting feelings that flew about me this morning, and, have continued to do so this afternoon, is a fragment of a song I once sang in college, in 1976.
It is from an Operetta entitled, "The Bohenian Girl", by M. Balfe, written, perhaps, around 1847, t wit:
The heart bowed down by weight of woe.
to weakest hopes will cling.
To thought, and impulse, while they flow
that can no comfort bring, that can, that can'no comfort bring.
To these exciting scenes will blend,
o're mem-ry's pathway thrown.
For mem'ry is the only friend
that grief can call it own....
that grief can call its own...
that, grief, can call...its own.
It is a very sweet, and melancholy song, one which--should you have time--will look up on You Tube some of Balfe's other songs from that Operetta are as equally full of meaning.
And so...my ever dear, and gentle readers, in asking you to please forgive me, please allow me to close for now; forwhile it is now afternoon, I took double the dose of my medications, and am growing sleepy, having been exhausted all the night through, in fighting this pain, and depression, and simply want to eat a little something...anything, and in taking yet more medication, want most to severely return to bed.
For outside, the day is a gloomy as is my mood, and it threatens to rain on and off all day; I thank God that I have a roof over my head, food in the house, a dear dog, 'Daisy', who only realizes that something, showhow is wrong, covers sufficient to warm me from these chills, and...dear friends like YOU, at MDJunction, who probably know me, better than I know myself.
and, it is to you, that I so fervently wish for pain-free, wonderful days, quiet evenings, and nights of blissful, untrammeld sleep, far, far and away from the evils that so often plague us, attended by sweet and loving angels.
all my love, from an heart that is both pure and true, 'Zahc/Charles'

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'Nightmare And Pain'...'Pain And Nightmare': The Evil Twins Of Despair'

'Nightmare And Pain'..'Pain And Nightmare': The Evil Twins Of Despair'

Sep 21 2011

09/21/11
To my very dearest friends, and now most loyal readers;
I want--again--to offer you my most heartfelt thanks...thanks for being my friends, thanks for understanding me, and acceptingme, thanks for your unending kindness and patience, thanks for your continued readership ( as I would be be less than the sound of a wind chime, heard at a distance, and most faintly in the desert of time ), and...thanks for your dmonstarted love, caring, and for simply...being there for me. For all these things and more, you have my undying gratitude; for...if there is any meaning, beauty, or truth in my loneliness, my pain, and my endless suffering, it is you, my dearest friends.
'Nightmare And Pain'...'Pain And Nightmare': The Evil Twins Of Despair'
Although, my friends, I cannot judge the verasity of it, whether it be from my pain, of from the medications I must regularly use to survive--barely functioning--as an human being, and an adult one at that, I never, ever have pleasant dreams anymore.
Oh, at one time, so long ago now, as to seem vague and ill-recalled, I used to--on occasion--have the most wonderful dreams; dreams that delighted me; dreams that were as little comedies; dreams that caused me to laugh, and to sometimes, even cause me to wake, smiling and happy, now, it my dreams are almost always exercises in torture, from which I often startle awake, sweating, and sorry, and depressed. Often, so much so, that it colored the rest of my day, leaving me feeling odd, out of place, out of synch with the world around me, and perceptively drawn and despairing.
Too many times--now--to count, I take a sleeping aid, to help me bypass some of the pain and get drowsy, until I can no longer hold my hear upright, and must--perforce--lie down ( somewhere ), as it, and the exhaution of the day finally overcomes me.
When I do go to bed--after calling for my dog, Daisy, to come sleep on the carpet beside me, I toss, and turn, trying to find that 'one' spot, wherein I am in slightly less pain, and can tell, from my long exhalations, and sighs, that, having been showered--earlier--by my kind C.N.A., donned in clean pajamas ( yes...my friends, I prefer to wear old-fashioned pajamas to bed ), and, of slipping into a freshly made bed, with clean and cool linens, I lie there, thinking about 'things', while mentally examining by entire body for 'hot spots'.
Mentally, I try to make them be still, to settle down--most hopefully, to abate--so I can more fully relax, and drift off, with the most innocent of prayers being said to a kind Savior, to thank them for all my many blessings, as I warm beneath those clean linens; and, havinf said 'goodnight' to my dog, it is my fond hope ( never realized, anymore ), that--somehow, I will be transported to sleep by gentle angels, who will guard Daisy and I through the long night. And that I will awake calm, able to laze there, enjoying that all too brief phase that occurs just at the precise moment between waking, and sleeping, where the mind can recognize the bedroom, while the body has still to fully wake.
In those blissful 20 seconds or so...NOTHING hurts, and the usually raging mind is quiet, even comtemplative; it may be an animal pleasure, but one--nevertheless--that, when it does happen, I rejoice, and give thanks to my God, for that brief interlude, before the inevitable 'samenesses' of the day begin.
Though I apportion blame to my Lupus/Fibro/Chronic Pain, and of all the medication that I must--perforce take, like so many of you, my dear friends, I no longer sleep well, or longly.
My sleep is always interrupted by a number of things, unknown in the past. Among them are, having once or twice to get up during the night for 'bathroom calls'; waking, suddenly, when I have rolled over to a side where night pain predominates; or, of just waking suddenly, without reason. And I believe that more often than not, it is to sheer nightmare that causes me to bolt upright in bed, confused, and disoriented.
And, within the past year or so, I have noticed a somewhat alarming trend developing: that of my finding myself out in the kitchen, in the office chair that I have there, head upon folded arms, having swept things from the counter to the floor, and of giving it scant notice.
This morning was no different.
I awoke ( at nearly 11:30, this morning ) out in the kitchen at the counter; I did not waken easily, but almost grudgingly came to, at the sound of my telephone ringing. I remember that I mumbled something by way of a reply, and didn't bother to re-cradle the telephone.
I was so cold, that my hands trembled, and I shook as if with chills; my body was cramped, stiff, and sore, with every nerve cell beginning to be lit by fire; I had an heaache so severe, that it pulsed with every beat of my heart; my legs and feet agonized me, and my feet were now edematous from having been dangled there for hours.
Lights were on, everywhere in the house, surely, I must have turned them on. I was so very grateful that--before I had retired to bed--I did manage to lock and secure the doors ! That has not always been the case.
So I ask of you, my dear friends and gentle readers, why cannot I go to bed, return to bed, and stay there, until time to arise ????? And...why is my 'sleep' now peppered with nightmare so intense, that I now dread going to sleep, no matter how tired I am at day's end ???? And...why does it seem, that, while the conscious part of the brain is subdued, and no longer in control, the subconcious, the primitive, the 'Id' part of the brain becomes alive, weaving nightmares that are as a portal into Hell itself ???? While this part seems to have been written pretentiously, artlessly, it is no less than true, as I promised you, my friends and readers, that I would never seek to lie, or to utter purposely untruths in order to mislead, deceive, or dissemble.
Friends, it is now 6:45 PM, here, and I have done NOTHING to either redeem myself, or to 'earn my keep' as an human being. I was hungry, but, not enough to warrant any preparation of food; I do keep hydrated, as I am thirsty all the time; and...I am so tired ( not dreamily sleepy ), but tired in a way that has fully caused me to waste this day, as I waste so many others, for there is a certain, walking, semi-awake, semi-coma that attends many of my days; the ungoverned hours pass all too quickly, and, soon, it will get dark, outside, signalling yet another end to a pointless day. And I HATE it.
I used to be alive, engaging ( I hope), civil ( I hope), working, and interacting with people all the time, while being able to enjoy different hobbies and pursuits as suited me. Now, because of the pain, as I can think of not other, ready reason, I dose up and beyond, as I cannot tolerate this pain, on such a global level, that it frightens me, and incapacitates me.
In my nightmares, places , things, and faces change, bleed into one another, in situations where I am tortured by the purest of evil: faces of my friends, and even of my late mother and father becoming fluid, changing, until they are as monsters; I am chased, attacked by entities who would seek to destroy me; situations of hopelessness, in which I am trapped, for example, in an endless hallway with locked doors on each side, which shrink, and collapse, and from which there is no escape.
Rarely do I have a 'repetitive' nightmare. I haven't had one of those since I was a very yound child.
No...my nightmares are as an endless 'super-plex' of dark theaters, stretching into infinity, whose offerings change nightly. I am dragged down the hall, and forcibly shoved into that night's show.
And while I realize that the role of the subconcious mind--through dreams--acts as a pressure-reliever, mirroring short messages to the conscious brain that of currnet instability, anxiety, relationship, and/or work problems, etc., why can't my subconcious throw to me little bits of happiness, of joy, of awe, of perhaps feeling the 'rightness' of things in daily life ?
And, when the 'remembered' essence of nightmare continues on to color the rest of the morning, sometimes, all day, even, and to conspire to make one feel discomfitted, off-beam, disturbed or preoccupied, then, surely, something must be wrong.
As "Prospero" was suppposed to have said, "What man can remember his dreams ?", I would have to reply, "We ALL do", or at least most of us do.
And so, my most dear, and kind friends, who have faithfully continued to follow my diary, whether you make comment upon it not, I thank you. For it is you, to whom I turn to seek answers, even as I long for validation, your continued support, and encouragement.
Now, as the day winds down like a pocket watch that needs winding, lest it stop, I shall probably end my day by answering a few e-mail that I receive, acknowledge hugs and messages sent to me, maybe watch a few, funny videos that I hope will make me laugh, feed both myself, and Daisy, maybe speak late with a friend, before I ready myself--again--for bed.
Will it be to an uncertain and broken sleep that is never restorative, but typified by the ravening hounds of Hell, rather than that of delight ? Probably.
To you, dearest friends and readers, I can only wish for you painless days, wonderful days, tranquil, quiet, and peaceful evenings, and--of course--nights of dreamy, undisturbed and restful sleep, quite free of monsters, but attended to ny sweet angels, and there, waffed ever so gently by the most gentle of angel's wings; there protected, guarded over, and kept safe through the night. From my heart of hearts, love, 'Zahc/Charles'

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' I Feel So Strange, So Afraid; Could I Be...Happy ??? '

'I Feel So Strange, So Afraid; Could I Be....Happy ???'

Sep 18 2011

09/18/11
To my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,
I want, first to ackowledge you, and to thank you, for your kindness and support, and for your encouragement in trying to writemy diary entries, for, without you, I would not be, it is fully your reading, and comments that somehow make valid my efforts; and without you, and my other friends at MDJunction, I would still be so very much alone. And, without purpose; alone, and alone with my pain and despair. It is you who have taken me in, and so very often comforted me, and fully allowed me to share with you my thoughts without censure, and reveal to you the contents of my heart without betrayal nor cruelty.
And while I do crave your praise as it brightens all my days, even in your criticiam ( which surely I need from time to time ), even in this you have been both gentle and respectful of my deepest feelings.
I realize that all of us at MDJunction are bound by shared pain, and broken lives, MdJunction( thanks to Roy ), has proven to be a safe haven, a resting place, a quiet place, wherein all of us can find healing, hope, serenity, and...peace...from both the monsters within us, and those that may surround us, to that special place where yet angels can be found.
To find them, all that is required is to look into a mirror. For, whenever I seek them, I find them in you, dearest friends.
'I Feel So Strange, So Afraid; Could I Be Happy ???'
Usually, my dear friends, I merely 'exist' from day to day; nothing out of the ordinary, neither special, nor untowards. I awake from nightmare and broken sleep, to pain that begins to rise within me, even before I leave my bed. Often, my first 'task' of the day is to hurry out to the kitchen for my morning medications, AND my pain pills, providing--of course--that I have not once again awakened to find that I had slept out in the kitchen at the counter, already made weary by pain, made slow of thought, made contorted by position, to find the lights still on in the house, and--occasionally--having left the front door open earlier, so that my dog, Daisy, could go out; but at four or five in the morning to awake so, is itself frightening, and disturbing; once, at about eight AM, a neighbor just come into the house, without knocking ( or else I just didn't hear him ). But that sixth or seventh sense that someone was there startled me awake, and being suddenly very afraid, I either yelled or screamed out, so suddenly was I wrenched from sleep, feeling as it I were truly having an heart attack. He thought it was just funny, but, dear readers, it occured to me, that, had I been holding a revolver, he would most likely be dead. It cannot help but be my myriad medications which cause me to rise during the night--ostensibly--to hit the bathroom, and to come out for 'just one cigarette', that I must surely--in putting my head down on my arms--get too drowsy to do anything sensible like, going back to bed.
At least, now...I make of it an habit to purposefully lock the front door, lest someone come to peril.
And so, my days slowly pass, my hours stretching ahead of me like a prison sentence, and, unless I have a physician's appointment, all the days of the week blend into a blur; Thursday is no different fromTuesday, which is no different from Wednesday.
Everyday, I wear my pain like a robe, and carry it with me from room to room, bathroom to bedroom, study to kitchen; wherever I go, it goes; the pain clings to me, suffocating me, and every breath is nothing but a tiny torture.
I can no longer drive a car; besides, my agoraphobia would forbid it anyway, as I am too frightened of accidently being hit, or of hitting someone, possibly hurting or killing them. This I know I could not bear...to have taken a life.
I cannot go to crowded places for a number of reasons, nor to the library, nor to the grocery store as there's too much noise, too many bright colors, too many people, too many cars.
At least--now--I can 'allow' the County Public cab to take me to my appointments, as somehow, I know we are not going anywhere else, and I can hide ( a difficult task for someone of my weight ) slouched down in the backseat, listening to the distraction of the driver speaking into his radio's microphone. I still cannot tolerate a full waiting room, and have to escape outside to try to breathe. I carry a liitle bag I can throw over my one shoulder, that contains my housekeys, my wallet, some 'extra' money for emergencies, a cigarette case and lighter; over the other shoulder I carry my portable oxygen ( never fear, dear readers, I always disconnect my oxygen, for the couple of cigarettes I smoke, while waiting on a bench outside the waiting room ).
Living in Florida, I always wear sunglasses and wear an hat; and with my cane that helps me hobble-around, I always think I must look like some freak of nature, although--usually--the sight of my oxygen and cane gives me some 'pity points'.
Once, on the way in to my Psychiatrist's office, I lost my footing and fell down; ahead of me was a group of young teenagers who pointed at me, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed as I struggled to get to my feet. Did any of them offer to help ? You may choose your own answer, my dearest friends. Suffice to say, I had to crawl to the first car next to me, grab the bumper, and use the front end of the car to get up, and pick up my cane; I had dirt all over me where I had fallen, and--as you might guess--the ground and sidewalk were wet; I had cut my knee, and murdered my back. And was lightheaded as I finally got to my feet.
Forgive me friends, but in that few moments that seemed like a hour, I hated those kids...not because no one offered to help me, but that they had laughed at me. To be honest my friends, perhaps I did not hate THEM so much as I hated their healh and youth, something I longed for, but that they squandered.
But, as I am wont to do, my gentle readers, I digress.
Why should today, Sunday, September 18, 2011 somehow be special, different?
Why should it even occasion a diary entry of its own ?
Please help me to figure this out, my friends.
Although I awoke, again at the kitchen counter, at ten, this morning, it was to answer a telephone call from a dear friend to remind me to get up, wash my face, and make myself presentable, as--today, as is the case almost every Sunday, my cousin was due to visit me a little past eleven. And I must tell you a little about him.
What began as a long-ago query from him for geneological information, grew into a solid friendship, and, both he and his wife are exceptionally kind, decent, and wonderful.
He is about five years older than I; his grandfather, was MY grandfather's Uncle, and THEY were as children, until their passing, inseparable, close friends, so, perhaps, in a way, history is repeating itself. My cousin is a retired, electrical engineeer from Honeywell, and a most accomplished and genuinely nice person.
Among his other interests, he is a self-taught chef, and, often--during his Sunday visits to me--will prepare something truly wonderful, which, when ready, he places in front of me, with placemat and napkins, while he sits back to see my reaction, as he loves to cook, and loves to see people eat.
Last Sunday, he prepared perhaps the best beef stroganoff that I have EVER had; this Sunday, he brought with him utterly 'killer', as the kids would say, tuna salad. While he busily cooks, we jabber about the past, friends, and names in common, events of the day, anything, and manage to share a couple of beers while he is here. I always look forward to his visits.
But...why should today be special?
For one, even though it rained on and off today, my medication kept my pain level at a managable level; oh, I still hurt, as I will always do that, but, somehow, today, the pain was a little different.
And, if I may digress, but with reason to do so, I am trying to 'fix up' the house, as 'remodel' sounds more expensive that my meager means could fund. Still...after living here since 1985, when my mother and father were still live, it was always, inescapably 'their' home, which was only natural, and fitting.
But in 26 years, the only thing that changed was when I got rid of their loveseat, to make room for my upright piano, which I had previously kept in storage.
Even before my mother passed away in 2008, both of my folks had urged me to consider 'this' as my home, and that when I inherited it, to change it anyway I liked.
By then, the Lupus/Fibromyalgia/Chronic Pain and Fatigue had gown large within me, and I began to question just how long I would be able to enjoy 'my' home, before my level of care changed. Even though I am on SSDI. I had a couple of small retirement bonds that I redeemed, and, haltingly began the slow process of making my dreams a reality, that of making my home 'my' home, one that reflected me, my tastes, and aspirations, and, persona.
Some very necessary repair work was done, and I turned my old bedroom into my "study", and moved into what had been my late mother's room, changing the vanity area into a,"gentlemen's dressingroom". And by living on nickles, saving every cent I could, I began to buy furniture ( close outs, sales, floor models, and discontinued items, that brought the prices down to where I could afford them.
Of course I had to make changes, make sacrifices, or just plain, do without, for dreams--however sweet--know no budget, or restraint. Some of the furniture I bought had to be assembled after delivery, and today, my dear cousin put together two diningroom chairs I paid about $160.00 for two. I only wanted two, as I infrequently entertain; LOL, change that to 'never' entertain, but I had waited, and had been searching for these diningroom chairs for eight months. And they are upholstered in a zebra fabric, which is but one of several 'global' themes I had envisioned.
Sheer luck brought to me a beautiful, wing-back chair which is actually a recliner, for my 'study'.
These were items that my cousin assembled for me, today, and that makes me happy, for, very gradually, my dreams--even the compromised ones--are becoming real. I am begining to see themes realized, objects repurposed, and moved. And while the house may--indeed--take another year or two to even near completion, every nuance, every small acquisition, puts it that much closer. And while I might not have 'exquisite' taste, my tastes suit me just fine, and.....I know how to 'guerilla' shop for bargains. For example:
When I decided I wanted new drapes for the three, front windows of my livingroom, I purchased three complete sets of single rod pocket curtains, which included two panels, one decorative valance that was scalloped, and tasseled, and included the sheers and tiebacks, in a soft sage material with faint gold scrolls from the Carol Wright catalogue for $19.99 a set. So, for about sixty bucks, I was able to cover all three windows, with the two inside pairs of panels gathered and tied together; I've since gotten many rave comments about them; only I know how truly inexpensive they were.
Now, if you happen to view my profile, my dear friends and readers, you will see me sitting at the kitchen counter ( where, often I fall alseep ), and see--first hand, where the money ran out. I have yet to do anything to the kitchen, although, I think I would like to have the walls painted, at least. But...it'll just have to wait.
Now, my gentle readers, as the day passes slowly unto evening, and into the inevitable night, now, my friends, I finally begin to tire; and my pain is always ten times worse--it seems--at night, when I am again alone, with only my dear dog for company. Funny, but as I weary, all the little monsters start to return. And with them, all the doubt, confusion, longing, and suffering.
However my friends, for at least a short while, I was happy; the 'secret' is--of course--is about how to find that emotion, again, maybe make it last longer, for I could not, dare not hope that it might last forever. I was afraid of being happy, of letting myself be happy, and to enjoy that transient happiness, fragile as it may be.
For, perhaps my pain has made me comfortable in its misery. Perhaps--in geral--I have denied myself happiness as an uncomfortable stranger. I am more accustomed to pain, as it is reliable, always with me, and seemingly never ending. This is something that I will have to think about, to try to figure it out, and understand it. For surely....it would seem, that we all would rather be happy than unhappy. Which is the more true ? Which is the most safe ? I just don't know.
But, as I wander about my home, with some, small greater satisfaction, I wish for you, my dearest friends and readers, every hope, every wish, wished well, and, every possible sense of happiness. I wish for you, as always, 'pain-free' days, quiet and harmonious evenings, and blissful nights of sound, healing, and restorative sleep, attended to by angels.
'Zahc/Charles'

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' Gimme A Little Sugar, Before You Go '

'Gimme A Little Sugar, Before You Go"

Sep 16 2011

09/16/11
To my very dear friends, and most loyal readers:
My father died in 1998; during the last two years of his life, he was so very, very ill, with nothing to be done, except for themost palliative of measures. For some previous time, he had begun sleeping in his recliner, out in the livingroom, and, with time always the enemy, I watched as he slowly, ever so slowly wasted away, becoming an horrible characature of my dad, his body and face like some unbearable costume of his former self.
Long since, our roles of 'parent'child' had changed, so that now, I was the parent figure, giving him his medications, urging him to eat, stopping by the grocery store on my way home from work to buy something, anything that might spur his appetite, taking him to see his doctors, getting groceries, and prescriptions that were necessary to help keep him alive.
On a number of my night's off, I would stay up with him, bringing my pillows and blanket to arrange them on the sofa, both of us dozing at intervals through the long night, while my poor mother slept as best she could, as his condition exhausted her, as well.
By now, the entire tennor of the house had altered, changed, mutated into one, large 'sick room', with dad's recliner at the center, surrounded by pulsing, and beeping medical equipment.
I had gotten an electric recliner for my dad, which he loved, when the wooden handle on the old one proved to be too much to move as he weakened. Every night, before I went off to work, I would make sure my dad was tucked in, and his feet elevated on a pillow, and with a neck pillow, so that, half-upright, he could breathe easier, and could get to the bathroom quicker.
By the time I left for work, mom was already in her cap, and nightgown, with her dentures duly put away, resembling not so much the mom I knew, but of some elderly lady.
And, my dearest friends, one of my fondest memory from those times, was, when my father feltbetter, both he, and my mom would stand at the open front door, behind the glassed-in screen door to wave at me as I left for work; once, as I was driving away, I looked back to see my mom and dad still standing at the screen door, speaking to each other, as they drew little 'smile faces' upon the condensation there. That image--for which I am grateful--will be forever etched upon my heart, although it makes me smile, and brings ready tears to my eyes.
I need hardly tell you, my dearest friends and readers, that we were a 'close' family; there was just the three of us, often, just us three against the world, and my world revolved around them completely.
Always, before I left for workm and, again in the morning whenever I returned home, I always kissed both my mother and father on the cheek; it being especially poignant at night, as I never knew what might transpire in my absence.
Before I left, my dad would always point to his cheek, and say, " Gimme a little sugar, before you go." And for those of you quite unfamiliar with the term, 'sugar' in that regard, meant a little demonstration of love, and I would go over to him in his chair, and lean over to kiss him on the cheek as he tried to pucker his lips to kiss at mine; with the back of my hand, I would most gently stroke his emmaciated cheek, to tell him that I loved him.
For, while often love is an unspoken and assumed emotion, sometimes it HAS to be physically demonstrated, even, by the littlest of kisses.
And, in these later years, with both of my parents gone, I firmly believe that I was most fortunate to have had the best mother and father in the world.
And, among the many, many things I learned from them, I will most glady share several with you, as I belived then--as now--to be of vast importance.
1) To NEVER let the sun go down on an arguement. Period. That any conflict should be resolved, or, at least tabled by nightfall.
2) No matter what, ALWAYS kiss me goodnight, for you never know what the morning will bring.
3) And....if a friend or loved one asks for a,'little sugar', it is given to them with heart wide open, freely, and to overflowing.
4) And, as my mother lay dying, I spoke into her ear ( as they say, hearing is the last thing to go ), " Please, please, always take the love with you, wherever you go," for I truly believe that it is the love that goes onward and ever onward past infinity, past universes, past all human concept.
In a funny kind of way-- I guess, you--my new and dear friends and readers at MDJunction have sort of become my 'new', extended family, as in reality, I have none. And while, in frank confession, realize and know that, besides my dear dog, Daisy ( and, hopefully ! soon to be my pony, 'Charlie Brown' !!!!!!!! ), I live alone, and am alone, that, on occasion, I could use a 'little sugar', too. As really, can't we all ?
You can live a life without love.....many people do, but there's always something, sometimes quite undefinable, that is missing.
And maybe it is that 'kiss goodnight' that I most remember and crave. For that concurrent feeling of wholeness, of validation, and...of making everything 'all right'.
And so, friends and gentle and considerate readers, I wish for you 'pain-free' days; quiet, and contemplative evenings free from dischord, and...nights of blissful and restorative sleep, guarded--always--by tender angels to watch over you, and protect you from harm. Love, 'Zahc/Charles'

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' My Rhodesian Family Of Four '

'My Rhodesian Family Of Four"

Sep 12 2011

09/12/11
My very dear friends, and loyal readers,
I must first apologize to you, as--today--not, unlike so many days, now--I found myself quite trapped between 'Lupus/Fibromyalgia/DeepestDepression and pain', and the mindless fog, frankly, a grateful fog of lassitude upon feeling the medication take effect; I went from pain and despair ( and, anger ! ) until I had chills of pain, waves of pain, to feeling 'thick-headed', and unable to plan, or to even make sound decisions.
I wanted to sleep--actually--and to readily give myself over to that resultant fog, even though I despise it; there is no 'steady state' for me, as while the pain or the fog exists as separate entities, yet, one or the other is either on the ascendency or decline, and only meet for the time it takes the medication to take effect. Inevitably, in trying ever to escape the pain ( which is in and of itself, a natural thing to do ), the medications rob from the mind what they return to the body. The pain, when it is severe enough, steals from both, as then, all conscious thoughts turn toward remedy.
At that point, dear friends, ther are NO clear 'winners' in this situation, except--perhaps--for that weary concession to pain, by taking strong medications.
It would seem to me, then, that in the equation of 'Pain + Pain Relief', the probable answer is zero. And that is precisely the moment that fear, depression, and regret come by to sat hello; and this scenario happens over and over and over again, day in, day out causing anger and resentment. In Pain Management, it is not whether the 'glass is half full, or half empty; the quantity contained, therein, simply occours because the glass itself is too large.
But I digress, my poor readers.
We seem to be a Society much given over to comparison: 'Who looks the best ?; 'Who has the better clothes ?'; "Who has the nicer home ?'; "Who drives the better car ?'. And on and on it goes. Everyone is considered, everyone judged, and we make our own 'value statements', and often use them to define ourselves, our status, our worth, our meaning in life.
These are but shallow observations, when a clear perception could be had by simply looking in a mirror. How do WE compare to ourselves ? Are we more kind ? More truthful ? Better, as humjan beings ? Mostly, if we look into a mirror, it is not to catalogue our faults and our strengths, but, rather, how do we 'appear to others'. Almost entirely as outward markers of success, of possession, of the accumulations of things 'wanted', rather than 'needed'.
We then take only casual stock of not who we are, nut of what we have. And THAT becomes the benchmark in how we judge ourselves.
Granted, I am in almost constant, and unrelieved pain; so are many of you, my dear readers.
Granted, I have to try to live on SSDI, as so many of you have to.
Granted, that in my inculturation, there seem to be so many things that I 'want', but simply cannot afford them; that is why, among other reasons, I am trying to purchase a pony. Do I NEED a pony ? Can I even take care of a pony ? Does my owning a pony ( or, not, depending on how this all proceeds ) improve Society, or in fact, help any of my fellow sufferers and citizens ? The resounding answer is NO.
Some time ago, when I was still being visited by the grief councilor at Hospice ( when my dear mother was still alive ), and I happened to complain about how low my pantry was getting, he looked at me, cocked his head, and asked me, " How many meals have you missed ?" I really could not think of any.
One day, some weeks hence, while I was looing through my pantry and cupboards for something to fix for dinner.....and could not make up my mind....I realized that I had choices, not many, but choices nonetheless.
It was then--I think--that I created an imaginary Rhodesian family of four: a mother, a father, and two children. I created them especially for me, for, while it is a given, that, in any one day, perhaps at least a third of the globe's population would go to bed that night, hungry, and with no shelter, I needed something, someone to bring the point home with certainly more effectively. And, then, there they were; a quiet family, with quiet children.
Looking around my home, I began to wonder what my 'new' family would think of it. And my thought both stratled and surprised me into speachlessness.
For imagine if you will, TWO rooms designed for no other reason than sleeping ?!!! TWO inside, and private bathrooms, with running water, hot AND cold; a livingroom to house furniture for the most part ?!!! A kitchen ? What is that ? A refridgerator with FOOD in it; a stove ? a sink ? A 'dishwasher' ?!!! A spacious, and green yard ? Electricity ?!!!! What can this be, but some palace, and on a street, in a neighborhood, a County, a State, and a Nation not overrun by armed troops, random, and widespread murder, no slavery, no endless war ????!!!!!! NO worry that in the night, you might be herded out and shot, or have your children mutilated, or sold into slavery ????!!!!!!
What place IS this ? Is it an Heaven? Is it real, can it possible be?!!!
Somewhere along the way, I found that I opened my doors, and...my heart to my Rhodesion family, and, at the same time, caused me to look around me with 'new' eyes.
And while 'my' pain may be different, it could never hope to compare with the thought of seeing your family butchered before your very eyes. And to know relentless fear, and terror, and hunger, and need for water, and the need for love, and for Peace.
Suddenly, I knew not for whim I was crying most for. Perhaps us both.
But, I also knew in that instant, just how grateful I was for quiet, friendly neighbors; a quite street, and for all that I had. The home that I inherited; sufficient food on which to survive; a wonderful dog, the 'best on the planet'.
But, most importantly, I was grateful to be an American, ( with all our remaining freedoms ) still freedom that eclipsed all tryanny, and grateful to live in America ( for these are two, different gratitudes ), to relish my freedon, and lack of the daily threat of harm, injury, or....death.
As guaranteed by our Constitution, and Bill Of Rights, the most important part of Freedom, is of being free. And , of having choices.
And while our Society has its own faults, they are due primarily to our own indiffence, and apathy to them. We cannot hope to change it, unless we first change ourselves.
If you find yourself having to eat hamburger, but dream--instead--of steak ( and...who hasn't ? ), you are still able to have that which is fully denied to so very, very many. Every day. Week after week. Month after month. Without ceasing.
As so, gentle friends and readers, on my way to have super,tonight, I will stop to pet my dog, open a refrigerator for a dinner that I in no way prepared, and, later, hope to climb into a welcome bed, with clean and cool sheets.
I shall pray to my God for my Rhodesian family of four, fully as much as I will offer up thanks for myself, for my friends, and friends at MDJunction, for my late parents, and, as the medictions make me drowsy enough to try to sleep, I will--at last whisper thanks to those who gave their very lives to protect us,and to keep us Free. And, who are doing so, even as you, my dear and gentle readers read this entry.
To all, I wish 'pain-free' days, quiet evenings, and blessed, and peaceful nights of sweet, dream-filled, and restorative sleep. Love, 'Zahc/Charles'

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' Refrigerator Art '

'Refrigerator Art'

Sep 14 2011

09/14/11
Good afternoon, my dear friends, and patient readers,
I first want to tell you how very grateful I am for your kindness, and continued support, for in your 'hugs'; your'PM's'; your readership, and especially for your continued readership, as it both validates me, and grants unto me a purpose and a forum I would not otherwise have had. My sincere thoughts go out to you, and unwaivering thanks; may God truly bless you, and keep you and your's always safe, hidden under his wing, and in His care, with blessings for you for 'pain-free' days, and relief from depression, despair, and loneliness, as well as for harmony within your homes, happiness, and greater health.
You must please excuse me, my friends, as today, I am in such a complete agony, that I couldn't even seem to get out of bed, and, even though its summer, here in Florida, I have chills, headache, depression, and cannot seem to gather the strength necessary to eat, or move, or even think clearly; however, I know that I am not alone in this, as too many of you, my gentle readers, suffer daily from your own hells, not of your intention, nor of your desires. And are often so fully engulfed by it, that, nothing else seems to exist, or to matter. And all of this I know of only too well. What choice have we but to continue ? We have children, grandchildren, spouses, partners, friends, neighbors, pets who lovingly, yet forcibly demmand our attention; for even as they may try with all their hearts to understand us, yet they cannot fully understand us because we have the 'pain' that has no face; for it is a global pain that devours from within; often, I can literally feel some little part of me--inside--being ripped apart, and gnawed at by my new friends: Lupus/Fibromyalgia/Chronic pain, and Chronic fatigue, as well as my other illnesses.
But, it is to you, my dearest friends, and most loyal readers that I should resist this THING, and 'carry-on', until night, and the last dancer and musician have gone. And pause to gaze Heavenward to an empurpled sky full of tiny, welcoming stars, and feel --ever--the slightest of cool breezes that waft across my face, drying my tears. For many others, it is to stand silent beneath a large, glowing, lambent moon, to listen to the distant howl of the wolf, and, in it, there to seek some commonality with a more gentle Nature. For still others, it is to walk haltingly on some moon-lit beach of an endless sea, hearing the corruscade of laping, and crashing waves. To feel the soft sand under your feet, pausing ever to find in that crashing sea a gentle comfort.
For, in truth, the path we walk is a solitary one, a lonely one, marked only by our own footprints, seeing where so many had trod before us, with only the sound of our breath, and the feeling of our beating hearts for companionship.
For as I KNOW and do not know of my pain, surely I KNOW and do not know your's.
'Refrigerator Art'
To those of you who still have small children, and to the rest of us, who have--perhaps--only fond memory, all are familiar with this phenonenom, that of seeing posted upon the refrigerator--as if it were a gallery of love--along with the pictures and the magnets, are posted the accumulated, juvenile art works of our children.
No matter if these 'efforts' fall far afield of prediting future pre-Picassos, or, pre-mattisses, it really doesn't matter at all, for these 'offerings' are lovingly brought home as treasures, and, should be accepted as the treasures they indeed are.
Who cares if the people there rendered are larger than the houses there drawn, or, whether mom and dad are represented by stick figures, and the only difference between the two is that 'mom', inevitably has long sqiggles of 'hair, or that the family dog has all four legs on one side, or that the house is crumpled at the ends....it is, nevertheless a welcoming sight to see all stick figures smiling, and, tendrils of smoke rise from a chimeny ( whether the house has a fireplace, or not ! ).
There may--above--be scribbled clouds, but the sun is almost always represented by a giant, yellow circle, with rays extending from it every where.
Flowers and trees are but haltingly drawn, but are always green, with red and blue flowers as mere globs upon the scene.
Watercolors, and finger paintings are even more difficult to find, and to define; often it requires the parent to ask what everything is, and nod, approvingly, with that child's definition.
I remember--as a young child--of running home with my now crumpled and wrinkled drawings to present--as tough they were gold--to my mother and father, who grabbed me, hugged me, and kissed me, and as there seemed to be no other place to put them, they occupied places of honor on the refrigerator; there, anytime anyone was in the kitchen, which was--after all--the hub of the house, there the 'pictures' were, shown as some, grand, gallery paintings, worthy of the finest museum on earth.
What my folks did, was, among the myriad ways of love and attention, was, in putting my dreadful pictures on their refrigerator, was to make me feel happy, safe, and secure...and....loved.
And when, in time, the front of the refrigerator was full, previous pictures were carefully taken down, admired--perhaps--for the last time, and then replaced with others. For all I know, they were thrown away, although, I must confess, that in much later years, after my mom and dad had died, and I was looking through their dressers, I found old report cards, folders, and...drawings, that spanned more than half century, having been given to my folks when I was perhaps five or six. I hadn't known that they would actually keep some...why, I will never know.
Only, maybe, that these former refrigerator drawnings, drawn in love, had been kept by a love that had transcended the years, the changes, the moves, their health and situation, and...their eventual mortality.
Funny, that a long ago five year old's scribbling would outlast those whon I loved most in the world; there was no little irony in that notion, and I stared at those pictures in baffled amazement. So much time had passed that I hardly--now--could recognize any sense of myself in them...yet, faintly, I did; for there was my name ( naturally misspelled) on the border.
To yet see them brought back scores of memories, not just of them, or my mother and father, but to the cobwebbed recesses that was my childhood, and it made me brush back tears of gratitude, and of a specific time and space, when that five year old's world was much simpler, less scary, more protected, and so generally benign a reality, which is in stark contrast to a reality I know only as an adult does, in an uncertain adult world.
For while there may no longer be monsters under the bed, there are an abundance of them just beyond my front door; and these are monsters--no less horrific--that cannot be disspelled by a nightlight, a kiss, or of a bedroom door left ajar, with its welcoming light, and the sound of my mother's and father's voices that lulled me back to sleep.
These days, especially when I am in an animal's pain so complete and ravening, that it fairly takes my very breath away by its intensity and unendingness, I long for that far away and ago time, for, as a child, I was blessfully blinded to a future that lay ahead, hidden, and coiled-about, like some odious thing.
My dear and faithful friends and readers, should you still have children who have not as yet lost their innoccence, and who still bring home to you even the most inexplicable and dreadful art, I urge you to give it a place of honor that it so richly deserves...upon the front of your refrigerator; gather up your child, hug them, and kiss them, and ooh and ah over their submissions. For too soon, they will be as strangers to you, made strange by a new reality, a new society, by factors quite beyond your control.
In now these bleak and bleaker times, love is too often just tossed aside.
Please allow me to wish all of you wonderfully, 'pain-free' days, evenings of quiet contentment, and dreamy nights of restorative sleep, far, far and away from any monster, safe, and kept safe by love. 'Zahc/Charles'

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'I Just Re-read My 'Profile'...Who Is That Man ?, And Why Do I Hate Him?'

Sep 08 2011

09/08/11
My very, very dear friends, and now, most loyal readers, I know--that in first joining 'MDJunction'--we were all supposed to write a profile of ourselves, and to provide at leastsome, generalized information about ourselves...our illnesses; our habits; our likes and dislikes, and so on.
There is also room for a tiny photograph of ourselves to show what we really look like, although some members represent themselves by objects, flowers, abstract things. When I finally was able to have a photgraph taken ( one out of several, by the way ), and get my cousin, a retired electrical engineer from Honeywell to enter it on my profile, while I tried to look 'stoic' and patient, when I see that paicture--now--and read that profile--now--I wonder, just who IS that man...and why do I hate him? Though intensely dislike is probably closer to the truth.
When I looked--again--at the picture--I saw a sad clown, no longer in the first, second, or third flush of youth, who simply looked pathetic and...weary, both of illness, and...of life.
In the prologue of my diary entries is the firm promise to never lie, dissemble, or to try to twist the truth; this I most readily pledged, and trust that I have never renegged on. It was a promise I made both to myself, and, to you, my friends. For in always trying to be candid ( even at the expense of Self ), one must simply be candid. Nothing more, nothing less.
I say this to you, my dear readers, not to elicit from you kind, and supportive reassurances that, to the contrary, I look handsome, almost regal in my suffering. For while I do suffer great pain, almost without an end or light at the end of the tunnel, too many, at MDJunction have their own pain, their own despair, their own depression, their own loneliness, that often legitimately plagues all their days, that surely, my pain is as is your's.
And, in this regard, the photograph does not lie; for I am a single, 57 year old male, who effage has been etched with years of pain. In do way did I seek a 'glamour shot', even were I able to arrange one, for that--in itself--cloak the truth with a mask.
I then read my awful 'Profile'; it was nothing so much as a menu of pain, in historic order, that, when I read it aloud to myself, sounded boring, and dreadful....whining and complaining. Particularly whining, which when about myself, I cannot abide.
And while the photgraph cannot help but be true in a way, the written part of my profile NEVER addressed what makes me laugh; my gratitude to my late mother and father; my, 'best dog on the planet', Daisy, whom I love utterly; my likes and dislikes in art, music; my friends; the home I am now trying to redecorate on the cheap ( as, after all, I am on SSDI ! ); nor of the small triumphs, and joys of the day; not even what my favorite color is: ( BTW, I think it is purple, followed by blue, followed by red, and black ),and of how I have tried to make of my home a statement of myself, to begin my history, my saga, my adventure, and of the excitement of that realization.
Instead, what was represented was a catalogue, a compendium, a lop-sided laudry list of pain; and when--at last--it hit me, I realized that in that drearty conjugation, I had effortlessly defined myself by my illnesses, just as so many others ' on the outside' seek to catalogue us, to place us in separate, little boxes, to which we could be referred as.
Even though that profile 'list' of diagnoses and complaints may be true...and they are, by my writing them so, I defined myself so. And while the pain I too often feel is soul-killing, yet I have--I hope--an intact soul, of which illness is only a part.
It may compromise me utterly, still...I have--quite apart from it--a personality, a mind, an heart, and--I hope--a demonstrated desire to listen and to help wherever and whenever I can.
I think, what I have tried to do is, redeem myself in my diary posts to you; and, you have never failed me with your kind support, your acceptance, and your loyal readership, for, frankly--without it, and..you--I would just be spinning plates on the end of long sticks, as they do in the circus.
Your readership, your comments, your hugs, and messages to me, mean more to me than I can possible say. For, while you may not realize the signifigance of it, YOU help shape me, hold me up, give me both courage and confidence, and strength to go on.
For in listening to me, and in your comments, notes, hugs, and, most important, your kind, kind offers of friendship, that I hardly deserve, and are often more true than many of the so-called friends I have in real life; you are as an oasis that refreshes, even as it offers refuge.
For a while, you willingly set aside your own problems and pain to attend to mine, which I find extraordinarily gentle, kind, restorative, and for which there can never be thanks enough.
You readily and unselfishly offer hope where there seems to be none, peace, which seems a far-off, ill-remembered dream, and sanctuary, when in the darkest of nights, there is none to be found.
You are the 'porchlight' which would ever beckon me home, my friends.
You are as the gentle rain, that washes the tears from my face.
Your's is the hope, and encouragement that gives me new purpose.
You are the friends, who--in non-judgement--excuse me for my weakness, laugh with me at my follies, and foibles, and treat me with caring and a respect that I have found no where else; stay with me when I cry, or feel hopeless. And who truly understand the height, and depth, and breadth of my agony.
And....you know when I need a swift kick to the butt, or a reality check, lest I wallow in self-pity.
YOU are all these things, and so much more. For which I give thanks to my God.
You know...in thinking--now--of that man in the picture of my Profile, I don't think that I really dislike him so much, after all; for he IS one lucky guy.
Please always know 'pain-free days', quiet and comfortable evenings, and blissful nights of sound sleep, attended by angels.
love, 'Zahc/Charles'

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' When A Gift No Longer Becomes A Gift '

'When A Gift No Longer Becomes A Gift'

Sep 04 2011

09/04/11
My dear, and gentle friends and loyal readers, while I had wanted to share this particular diary post with you, it has proven to be one of the most difficult ones that I have ever triedto write; for in recognizing the realities of the present, in passing ever backward down the years of half-recollected memory, and of the resultant sense of loss...and of being lost, emotions flowed over and through me, unbidden, that as I was aleady in a mindless fog of pain, and despair, the accumulated depression it engendered made me cry, and I just sat there, tears coursing down my face, as I rocked back and forth in seemingly endless pain and suffering, that I could not...dare not go further, for which I ask your most kind forgiveness for my weakness, as well as my sadness.
As a 'Adult', I fully understand that, once a gift is given, it has truly passed from my hands ( and control ) to that of the recipient; and that, no matter the time, effort, sacrifice, and love with which it is being sent, the person--in getting the gift--may then do anything they please with it. I cannot legislate their reactions to a gift, for it is both unfair, and impossible of me to do so.
Thus, they can--at will, on on a whim--admire, and like the gift; dislike and return the gift; eat it; repurpose it; re-gift it; ignore it....or simply throw it away. And, are not obliged to--in any way--explain or justify their actions. This I know, and understand. It happens no matter what 'I' might like.
Decades, now ago, when I was a child, I eagerly awaited the arrival of Christmas. While colleagues at school ( more out of meanness than anything else ) had tried to divest from me the very idea of 'Santa Claus', they were only partially successful. I loved the pretty lights, the carols, the anticipation, the candy, being with my now late mother and father, and enjoyed the general lassitude of 'Good Will', as it seemed to me, that everyone was just a little more kind, and, happy. Somehow, the very air seemed different, and I was happy, with that lind of happiness that only lucky children evidence.
Even though ( and I knew this ! ) that we had but little money, still, my mother and father and I would spend a most pleasant evening, decorating our little tree, I revelled in the fact that we--as a small family ( I have NO brothers or sisters ), were safe, and together; even my folks seemed more relaxed, less stressed, and....as I recall, they--too--were happy, as only kind and loving parents could be happy.
My father would extract from his wallet, a ten dollar bill with which I could buy for them a Christmas present. I tried to make it last, and as you can well-imagine, the things a nine-year-old can come up with ! Nevertheless, on Christmas morning, my folks treated my paltry, often silly gifts to them as it they were greater than spun gold. And my dear mother and father ALWAYS provided me with a wonderful Christmas, not so much in quantity, but things they instinctively knew that I had secretely wanted.
Nor, were the religious aspects of the holiday ignored, as my dear mother ( a Titan, when she wanted to be ! ), read to me the 'Christmas Story', and we always had a small creche scene near the tree, to ever remind us of the 'true' meaning of the holiday. As I was much too young to attend midnight services, my mother, always the tender of our souls, would make sure that we went to church that Christmas--as she did--in fact, every Sunday--so that 'we' as a family could offer up our sincere thanks, for all of God's mercies to us. And, to thank Him, for giving us a Savior for all the world.
Looking back, in fondness, now, I well remember the cookies, and half glass of milk we left for Santa, that was mysteriously gone Christmas morning, doubtless by my parents who had probably labored half the night , to assemble things while I slept, in such a glorious, magical, and wonderful sleep, that it is one I most surely miss now, amid broken nights of pain and despair, and intrusive bathroom calls to pee.
And, although I may have been awake, I did not automatically rush to wake my mom and dad, until at least six AM. LOL . Not knowing that--in time--it would be I , who had to be awakened.
Scroll with me, my dearest friends, down the years, faster and more fast, still, until about 1992, when my father became so very, very ill; I worked the night shift at a job that--after the first, three years--I began to hate. In the five, and an half years that he lived, if you can indeed call it living, my mother and I tried to care for him at home, as he desperately hated hospitals. I never knew when I would get that, 'middle of the night telephone call' at work, from my mom, whenever there was something wrong that she could not resolve, and I would look at my coleagues whi tod me to go home, and I sped home to see what I could do to help.
The accumulation of medical equipment, with their attendant beeping, and noises, quickly made off the house a 'sick room'. And I was often awake, and running errands for my folks, often putting in eighteen hour days, until I became exhausted.
Gradually, the holidays...ALL the holidays became as just 'regular' days, with little meaning or purpose. We had enough 'near misses', emergencies, and hospitalizations, even on the holidays, that were always just bad, that I was too weary to care anymore. I became bitter, resentful, even, of the now seemingly 'enforced' amiableness of the holidays; the Christmas lights more reminded me of the flashing lights of Dad's medical equipment when something had gone horribly wrong. The carols just annoyed me, as did, what I called, 'forced gaiety', by persons, who would too soon revert to their usual meanness.
On many occasions, I opted out of taking Christmas Eve off, in favor of giving it to a co-worker who had small children at home. And was as soon satisfied with taking off Christmas Day night, or even, the night after that, so little did it mean to me; the 'presents', what there were of them, could stay under the tree a few more days; in point of fact, they could have stayed there forever.
I did put a small tree, decorated, and lit up on the table next to dad's recliner so that, during the night, when he was often awake from pain, he could look at those little lights, as he once told me they, 'made him think of happier times'. How sad, how very sad it was. I daren't cry in front of him, so I saved my tears, when on Christmas morning, as on too many other mornings, that I barely managed to thank my God for his son, my Savior, as my muddled prayers were too wearily said, confused, and too full of need, to be really prayers at all; I begged for angels, but got none.
And, dearest friends and gentle readers, if I have not lost you yet, please let us scroll down to some two Christmases ago.
Even then, I was is undiagnosed pain, and trying to live on SSDI. I no longer worked, nor, could I drive a car, so that my poor dog and I were penniless.
Imagin--then--my utter surprise to learn my late Uncle had left me a small sum in his Will !!!!! For weeks, I just looked at the check in sheer disbelief, for in truth, the reality had not set in, and it all just looked like abstract, meaningless numbers to me.
And while I did invest some, I decided to express my love and devotion to my handful of friends, by having--for me-- a 'blow-out' Christmas. Since I could no longer drive, I poured for weeks over catalogues, happily encircling an item with that person's name. In anticipation, the joy of the holiday returned, I hummed carols, and arranged for these presents to be delivered to them; I even laughed as I found something 'unique' for that friend, and, being able to buy it, did so in a grand mood. And, these were for friends, whose friendship had lasted decades, and that I truly loved them, and wanted the holiday to be special !
And while I knew some gifts were bound to bomb, and, BTW, niether wanted, nor sought reciprocity of any kind, I wanted to share my good fortune with them, as I knew that I would never be able to do so again.
Gradually, though, I became very aware that something, somehow, somewhere had gone terribly, terribly, and unexpectedly wrong. For, more often than not, my gifts occasioned--not joy--but a kind of yawning and bored reaction, in which, I was remembered as casually as one might remark upon the weather. Some gifts, were--in fact--never opened; some were summarily returned to the manufacturer sight unseen. And there were other, ugly, surprises that awaited me.
A friend of over three decades, stating that he and his wife had not sufficient wall space on which to hang it, took a $400.00 painting I thought he would really like, and tossed it out in his un-air-conditioned garage, where--surely--it will ruin; and then complained to me that it would simply cost too much, and require too much time, to box up, and mail it back for a refund or an exchange.
He also..as I recall, raked me over the coals for 'violating his privacy' when I had telephoned all over Chicago, simply to get the name of a chocolate that, three years before, he had declared to be his most favorite on earth. I had even written a little poem about it; so when he began to yell at me, I read him the poem, reassured him that his sacred privacy was still intact, and that--frankly--he had pissed me off, AND hurt my heart. After about an eon of telephone silence, did he apologise for blowing up on me.
Only two friends actually telephoned me to than me for their gifts, and only one, bless her, took the time to make a list of everything I had sent her, and about each thing, how much she loved and treasured it. Just one.
I had made a nice donation to a local half-way house, and it took them over a year-and-a-half, to even send me a scribbled note to let me know that they had even recieved my donation.
And while I expected no reciprocity, the only few, treasured things I got for Christmas came from a friend who is disabled and legally blind, scarcely able to afford presents at all.
All the anticipation, the eagerness, the joy of the holiday turned to ashes in my mouth.
I realized that time changes, people change, and friends change, and it merely case-hardened my heart; we are all getting older, though--apparently, no wiser, and that applies to me more than to they. I decided that just about everything I had done vaporized and fell into some Black Hole.
Now, regrettably. I KNOW better. Any further, that should any, extra money ever come into this house again, I will spend on myself, and on my dog. For, even though I cannot afford it, I still like nice things for myself, and dog, and for my house. I'd like some new clothes...a little jewelry, maybe, some new, comfortable furniture for my home, particularly considering the state of my health, and of how long I may be able to stay here, until the time arrives in which I must be more fully cared for.
So...when a colleague once told me that Christmas was her favorite holiday, I did not seek to in meanness, 'break her bubble', though when asked, I did state that, if I could not have the kind of Christmas I wanted, then I wanted none. For I will not seek to sabotage anyone's feelings contrary to mine. I still put up a little, decorated tree, mostly for guests to see whenever they may visit me..and that's not often.
And so, my dear friends, and loyal readers, I learned an invaluable, but costly lesson. One I will never forget.
Though, if pressed to do so, I will quietly admit that--once, before I die--I would love to be taken on a winter, early evening, genuine sleigh ride with genuine horses, while wrapped in a turkey rug to keep out the cold, and to listen to the sleigh's bells, and the horse's clopping along, with steaming breath, to convey us to some distant, quaint lodge, there to sit, with drink in hand, in front of a roaring fireplace, from which I would gladly retire to a nice, soft bed, full of pillows, and quilts, to sleep a sweet, uninterrupted, and sound sleep, my dog on the carpet beside me, as I drowsily remembered my dearest mother and father, and of the times that were--to me--the happiest of ones. For that, I would be truly grateful to God.
To my many dear friends at MDJunction, please allow me to wish for you 'pain-free' days, and quite, undisturbed nights, and pleasant fantasies of your own that may both warm, and comfort you.
All my love, 'Zahc/Charles'

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