' When An Unforeseen, ' Household', Emergency Arose...'

Mar 09 2012

‘When An Unforeseen, ‘Household', Emergency Arose...'
03/09/12
As always to my most dear, sweet, and constant friends, and patient, ever-loyal readers,
I remain-as ever-most grateful for your kind and caring friendship; for your reading my diary entries (which are SO important to me), and for your steadfast encouragement, and simply, ‘being there' for me, when I could find no other, and-in truth-desired no other.
I so often think of you, wishing you wellness, wishing you plenty, hoping for you peace, and a relief from pain (the kind of pain I know so well), and would thus protect you from, if but I could.
Even as we are bound by our varied illnesses, and made to live a lessened life; one that tragically is so devoid of comfort, happiness, or joy, as would make the very angels weep, I know we still must try to live our lives as best we can, and those of you who have spouses and/or children, must often bow to their societal needs, beyond that which, in better circumstance would entail the functions of a ‘normal' family, where even greater love, and harmony might, somehow, allow us some little more breathing space; in fact, the many obligations, and expectations imposed upon us do not stop to acknowledge any illness we might have, or the unimagined pain we hourly feel.
We are not granted succor for our ailments; the clock does not slow to allow us to painfully cross the street, in giving us the extra time we need.
Appointments that are made must still be kept; the car still needs to be in the garage for repair at ten sharp; certainly, we are given no consideration as to when the bills must be paid, and little more when groceries must be shopped for; laundry must be done; somehow, the lawn must be mowed with some regularity. And each, implied necessity to maintain life must be attended to, no matter how we feel; regardless of our pain, or lack of sufficient rest, or lack of energy...all of which you know so well.
Instead, how often are we looked upon with disdain, without caring, or regard; considered, in point of fact, to be lying, lazy, or irresponsible, plying-through a failed medical maze in an attempt to somehow cheat the public of its hard-earned money. While-in truth-as made invisible as we are, we-too-support the common weal; we buy groceries, pay utilities and taxes. We still make, and sustain jobs, and this failed economy, even when we, ourselves, because of our illnesses and agonizing pain cannot suffer personal employment.
Still, even those of us who live alone try at our very best to maintain, and live ‘normal' lives; to participate in a society that largely does not understand us; to more fully enjoy those guaranteed, Constitutional Rights, supposedly granted to all to be able to live as free and safe a life as possible. And to our best extent, secure for ourselves and for our children the Rights of Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness that was secured for us in willing blood, and the sacrifice of human life to keep us free; a sacrifice as old as the establishment of our very Nation. And, even by us, too often taken for granted as our right, when a ‘Googled' look across the globe would accusingly prove otherwise.
However, upon occasion, something in our daily lives we never think about goes wrong within our living spaces; it is then, that we are taken up by surprise and shock, unaccustomed as we are to ‘household emergencies'. The refrigerator that suddenly dies, after twenty years of silent working; the washing machine that-for some unknown reason, now-will no longer spin-dry clothes; the family car that-at the worst possible time, it seems-leaves us stranded, while carrying grocery bags of perishable food.
How greater then, is our surprise and shock, when something that has NEVER broken down, suddenly, and without warning no longer functions.
And so, the true title of this entry, owing to lack of introductory space should be:
‘When An Unforeseen, ‘Household' Emergency Arose...How Easily Failed Was My Ability To Cope, And How Quickly Did My World Fall Apart ‘
For those of you, my dearest friends who better know my situation, and for those of you who don't, my home is a 960 square ft., 24" X 12", thirty-four year old, double-wide, mobile home that I inherited, with the death of my dear mother, in 2008.
I hardly need tell you that there is a marked difference between ‘brick-and-mortar' homes, and mobile homes, which are much less substantial.
When my late mother and father purchased it in 1978, financing was only available for fifteen years, it being (rightly) thought that even a new, mobile home had scarce a chance of lasting any longer than the mortgage time. And such is truly the case, for even with stellar maintenance; practically every mobile home deteriorates, loses value, and-in effect-begins to fall apart well before a ‘regular' home would. They are not built to last.
Interior walls are less than two inches thick, and have no insulation in them; cabinetry is held-together by tiny screws, or brads that rust; and, eventually, the floors have problems, and give ‘way, developing holes. In short, a mobile home just falls apart.
But once, I-in having some extra funds-decided that this would be my home, as it had been for twenty-six years; the ‘extra funds' came from a deceased Uncle, whom I loved greatly, but was completely unaware that a will even existed, or that I was listed among the beneficiaries.
It was not a fortune, but it did allow me to ‘improve' my home by having the floors repaired, getting some furniture, and having the walls painted.
Should you have occasion to view my MDJunction ‘profile', behind me is a kitchen that has remained unchanged, for-in truth-that is precisely where the money ran out.
And since I live in an area zoned ‘rural/agricultural', we've never had ‘city water', or ‘sewage', having, instead, a well, a pump, and a septic tank. Over the years, the septic tank had to be repaired, and the drain fields dug up and replaced. But other than the odd repair to the pump, in thirty-four years, we always had running water to the house. And, frankly, it was something I took completely for granted.
This past Friday night, on my way to bed, I stopped in at the bathroom, for a ‘last' pee call, but when I flushed the toilet...nothing happened; I turned the faucet handle to the sink, and got nothing. I then tried the kitchen sink, still without effect, and, in between the made quickened beating of my heart, I lost control of all my previously assumed, and calm coping skills.
I am sure-now-that my ‘nerves' would have failed me anyway, but this was late Friday night; no way to call anyone; no way TO call anyone; nothing to do but become increasingly anxious, sleepless, and afraid. In my mind, between rushed and repetitive prayers for somehow Divine intervention, was, ‘Oh dear God, what can be causing this? What is wrong?', and, of course, ‘How can I possibly afford to fix whatever it is?'
I firmly believe that somehow, soul, and mind, and body are interconnected in some kind of cosmic puzzle, for, over that weekend, my anxiety-level necessitated extra Klonopin, and I suddenly had an unstoppable and resistant migraine that nearly blinded me, and my pain...oh my dearest friends, my pain became an ugly, rising tidal wave of agonies that knew no relief, and any thought of sleep deserted me, so that, by Monday, I was exhausted and spent. I could not help but use a toilet that would not flush, until it had become an obscenity, and from lack of bathing, I felt slimy, sweaty, loathsome; and all the while, my depression grew and grew out of all bounds, even as I began a barrage of telephone calls to find answers, plans, and-as I actually did-mutter prayers, even as I begged for help from someone, anyone.
My dear cousin said, "If you can't control it, don't worry about it!" Really, all fine and good for someone who still had water, health, money, and none of the pain.
The problem, as it turned out, was that after thirty-four years, my well had run dry, AND had burned up my pump. And just as suddenly, I was left without a ‘game plan', nor any sense of direction; emotionally, physically, and psychologically, the bottom dropped out of my world.
Co-incidentally, that Monday was the day of my cousin's usual, weekly visits. And while his suggestions helped, they did not, could not calm my raging nerves.
Ordinarily, I say my prayers, always hoping for, but actually expecting little for myself, especially when my often, fevered prayers involve a ‘wish list' for myself.
However, angels must have been watching over me, and/or, guiding my actions, as I telephoned our area's ‘Water Board', and had an agent come out to the house THAT day, and tell me that, his report would get for me a new well dug, new pipe, new pump, and new retaining tank; I had told him of my disability. He could see the oxygen cannula running to my nose; perhaps he could assay my desperation; still...I prefer to think of angels, for, on Tuesday (a miracle of apparent, no ‘red tape', which might otherwise have delayed the ‘project' some odd weeks!), a man from a drilling company came out on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, they began to drill my new well, after having cemented-closed the old well.
On Wednesday, I had limited running water to the house, courtesy of their attaching a hose to a neighbor's well...a kindness I will remember, and, in time, acknowledge. Mind you, the running water that I do have is limited, and not suitable for drinking, but why question Providence? Yesterday there was delivered to me twelve, three gallons each boxes of spring water for drinking.
And this I would like you, my dear, sweet friends to consider: since the Water Board determined that their pumping water out of County had so lowered the aquifer in my neighborhood, the ENTIRE project, estimated, easily at $10,000.00 will not cost me a cent; that's right...it'll be free.
And, I should then have a new well, estimated to last another sixty years, much, much greater water pressure than ever I have known (no more dribbling showers !), and a much quicker refill, guaranteeing as much hot water, now, as my hot water heater can produce.
And while I should be amazed, and ecstatically happy, and I certainly am...and grateful beyond measure to whatever Powers that be, the week prior, had almost unraveled me (In almost ‘losing it', I feared I would have to check into a psych. facility), for some reason, I just cannot seem to calm down, relax, or enjoy my sudden blessings. I am still overly jumpy, anxious, and fearful (I guess in that something else might go wrong). I still cannot sleep, and what sleep I get is a blur in total, raging nightmare; neither has my migraine left yet.
I know I am being stupid, but until the job is completed, and all is made right again, I just cannot relax. It is, I am guessing, the gauge-at my age, and illness-of my inability to cope; and in suddenly facing an unavoidable abyss, I took with me my pain, despair, sense of hopelessness, AND helplessness, and of living quite alone, and promptly just fell in. And that it will take some time, before I can crawl out. How fragile, and insubstantial was my ability to ‘deal with it', without falling apart.
My lingering question is: what will happen when, invariably, the next disaster occurs?
Perhaps you, my most kind and gentle friends will know more than I, and can give the answer to it....always, in your demonstrated caring, and forgiving way.
Meanwhile, my dearest friends, and supportive, loyal readers, please, please do take care.
I love you dearly,
‘Zahc'/Charles

' And While Our Savior Languished On That Loathsome Cross...'

Mar 11 2012

‘And While Our Savior Languished On That Loathsome Cross, He Begged For Water, But Was Given Vinegar, Instead.'

03/11/12

To my oh so dearest and constant friends, and wondrous, ever-loyal readers,
In life, we are faced with so many situations; some involve ‘one trial' learning, such as when a child first touches a glowing stove element. Or, when, by accident, he nearly trods upon a snake, to at his first time at a beach, swimming out to a depth above his head.
These are painful, frightening, inexplicable events that-if survived-are never sought to be repeated again. Even the comical getting of one's toe in a tub's faucet, are not usually repeated again, for the remember pain, and embarrassment is quickly coded into one's memory at that instant.
And so, by these little ‘Life' experiments, we learn about our world, about the natural consequences of our actions, and how they may affect for the remaining sum of our years.
While perhaps not considered so, these are little survival skills that help-with others-to propel us further into young adulthood, through adulthood, and guide us to the inevitability of, A=B; If A, Then B; to whether A may be greater or lesser than B, and so on, leading into C, and further, and further from mere cause and effect, to establishing a ‘confidence level; the ‘goodness of fit; and to the ‘null hypothesis'.
Along the way, decisions we must make do not just divide into a binary ‘on' or ‘off' position, but pass into a multiplicity of possibilities upon which success or failure are irreparably bound.
We generally call this ‘learning', and is subsequently how we try to figure out the workings of the world, and of our place in it.
We quickly learn our limitations to what we can, with little or no effort accomplish with the minds that we are given; and, for the most part, settle into a life that is to some extent secure, predictable, and manageable.
Occasionally, we must try to make our way through that hazy cloud of that which, which-perhaps-predictable, is nevertheless emotionally and mentally unprepared for: the sudden and abrupt betrayal of friendship or of love; the surprising loss of employment; the death of a parent. Sometimes while these things can be foreseen, or even casually discovered, still, these events take us by surprise, and demand we raise our awareness and ability to understand, and to thus cope with, and survive. And to accept, and to move on. It is a demonstrated trait, and measure of our ‘humanness' that we often learn more from our mistakes, and we do from our successes.
Sometimes-though-the ‘playing field' is neither level, nor is it green.
Beliefs we've often held for years are brought to question, and, depending on the circumstance, our very ability to judge, decide, and to move on become so enmeshed in need, in other person's thoughts and desires, and our own uncertainty suddenly, about the ‘normalcy' of things. Too many variables confuse this process, and can arise from anywhere to impede one's judgment.
Perhaps the greatest fallacies to which we cling in the course of everyday living is that reliable things will always be reliable; that any change can be bested by a more clever mind, or endured with a better heart. Perhaps we also think that everyone will be as good and giving as are we. We also consider so much as our due, for being who we are. Thus, minor disappointments pile one on one, until we are left uncertain, having had no ready referent for comparison, and disillusioned to a worldly truth we, ourselves reject.
And should one already be weighed down by illness of other woe, we find ourselves too fragile, resisting change, trying to hold on to immutable hope that things will right themselves, if not by design, then, by magic, when all the stars above might suddenly align; or those with purer thought prevail, or, simply that we be borne away by angels, and some actually pray for such things: why, for such things, as a miraculous healing against all odds; or, in speaking of outlandish odds, the desire, and hope of winning " just one Lottery ", when the odds are much less that one will be struck by lightning.
Still, in those instances of catastrophe, such things are most devoutly to be wished. It is but an attempt by the fevered imagination to rectify reality.
Especially to those whose lives are already filled to overflowing with monstrous, and unending pain; an confluence of circumstantial agonies that seize the breath, and make low the spirit; how each little stress becomes unendurable, and each small alteration to life unbearable.
When such pain would seek to consume all thought, and strength of purpose or of mind, the conscience retreats behind a medicated shell, in seeking some kind of refuge from this torture, and despairing, and to the very lack of wanting to go on.
In such instances, how easily is the ‘Rubicon' of fortitude, crossed by evil intentions; how micro-miniature can be the ‘straw' that breaks the spirit?
To us whose illnesses have so surely revoked our chance at normalcy, to be-in fact-like others, strong, capable, and directed. In having illnesses and agonies of inner pain that little reveals itself to others, how often are we ‘judged' by others as somehow ‘second-rate', dissembling, or counterfeit.
And when in unerring pain, we outwardly rock, scarce able to move otherwise, or when our sleep (what there truly is of it), is broken into a thousand moments of encapsulated nightmare, or when we cry, or are quite unable to perform the slightest tasks, we are misunderstood by even those who claim they love us, by their easy anger when we fall, or are unable to catch up.
If pain-much like power-corrupts, then, absolute pain corrupts absolutely. How compromised are we by our agonies, and by our illnesses.
We are rejected by a society that has never experienced a totality of pain; even our so-called medical Providers stare at us with often unbelieving button eyes. The test results are in, and added to that pile of previous results; why is it not enough to convince them?
And while I am as are you enraged at this easily disposition, and subsequent lack of regard, there's not much we can do to further convince them. If I had a cancer, then its progress could be tracked through it different stages ‘till the end; if I had a broken leg, it could be casted, and its healing path arrived at.
How much longer must we endure the very suspicions by the medical community? Why must we still be thought of as outcasts, pariahs in our own society, who, frankly, would rather see us dead, than as leeches upon an economy we still contribute to? How much more should we be used up by greedy, and self-serving individuals who seek to line their pockets with our misery?
For us, the ‘one-trial' episode of long ago has never ended; even as adults, our ‘childhood hands' are ever held to the stove's searing heat.
All we wish for is some sense of societal parity, and from our doctors, medication that might mitigate our lasting, and enduring pain.
We came to them, seeking from them, some cooling drink of water, to allay our agonies. But-too often-we still come away with the taste of vinegar in our mouths.

My every dear, sweet friends, I can only meanwhile wish for you days of lessened, or of ‘no pain'; clearer minds, and better strength.
I love you dearly,
'Zahc'/Charles

' Oh, My Most Dear, And Gracious Savior: Perhaps There Has Been Some Mistake...'

Mar 13 2012

‘ Oh, My Most Dear, And Gracious Savior: Perhaps There Has Been Some Mistake; My Name Is Not ‘Job', And I Could Use A Break. Please Respond ‘

03/12/12

To my ever dear friends, and kind, loyal readers,
I can-in truth-never in some little part thank you for your continuing care, support, concern, when even at my darkest hour when my pain is at its worst, I know that you will ‘be there', to comfort, and to help sustain me; when even the passage of my days seems full of pain, and even my slight ability to endure life's problems, when they-too-would seem insurmountable and unyielding, you have, in your compassion, read my diary entries...which brings a joy to me not likely found elsewhere.
It is YOU who have befriended me, and often with your honeyed and calm reassurances , have given me a new strength; one that I had thought I'd lost.
And even in more serious times, when I feared that I would unravel from the stresses of them, I know that I can-with a grateful trust-- turn to you for guidance, and for help.
For, how has so often to us major situations in life occur not one by one, but rather in their seemingly devilish attacks, would craftily add life's diffulties to us by the score
You have this wonderful ability to comfort, and to protect, for, you-too-have roiled in such a severity of pain, depression, and loathsome ‘mind fog', which further reduces one to manage; the difficulty in choosing supper, when as nothing appeals to the taste; of spending too many evenings at home, trying to make up some kind of budget for the coming month, when you already know that you'll be broke to soon; to find-in terror-that your pain medications will not last until they can be refilled.
Of getting, along with all the usual bills, the odd, unpayable medical bill that you had forgotten., but that now demands payment lest it readily be turned over for Collections, which just causes you to sigh, as even now, your ‘credit rating' has bottomed out.
Then there are always the ‘new ‘surprises: the refrigerator that has silently worked for decades, that you return to one day, to find frozen foods well into thawing, and a huge puddle of water on the floor.
Or, it could be your washing machine, or dryer, that gives no warning when it quits, surprising you with a load of wet and soapy laundry just sitting there, until you have to drag it all to a Laundromat, but haven't nearly enough quarters on hand, or ready cash-for that matter, to make enough change.
In addition to being ill, bipolar, depressive, or easily given to panic attacks, and even of your so-called, ‘regular' pains that quickly turn to agony with no warning.
This terrible and unexpected list goes on and on:
The family car that one morning will not start, despite the fact that you have doctor's appointments to keep, particularly in pain management, where appointments simply cannot be missed.
Or, an errant leak beneath the kitchen sink, unable to be just a simple repair, but always one that necessitates a visit by a plumber. An inner-and, sometimes-outer voices screams how will it get paid?
And to many of you who have dependent children, how-on a routine visit-suddenly need glasses...or braces.
For even if you sacrifice all of yourself, it still is not enough.
We are so accustomed to scraping by, and scraping by on such a person deficit economy, that-in truth-any extra stresses cause us to question life;
We who live I such poverty, below-in fact-the Lower Class, have our suffering and our pains multiplied beyond all reason, and sometimes, beyond all caring.
How, so often in the desperate search for some little, extra cash, attempt endless ‘deals', or go ‘hat-in-hand' to anyone who might give to us a loan; and, if so, wonder painfully it can be repaid?
And, of course, it goes without saying that we have long-since maxed-out all our charge cards, and struggle now, to pay the minimums every month.
For those of you-my dearest friends-who have heard my lamentable story, to recap: almost ten days ago-no-my well went dry, leaving me with no running water to the house; now in the twenty-six years that I have lived here. Oh, occasionally, the well-points were shorted out, but my dear, late father could nearly repair anything around the house; a skill, that somehow, I never inherited, nor mastered.
In just that week, my coping skills, mental, and physical health almost dropped out from under me; and should running water not be restored, I would be forced to move to some horrible A.L.F., or nursing home (the County's choice). And then, what would happen to my dog, Daisy?
Sometimes-though-a kinder Providence will move what seemed to me to be a mountain, and because my County exports millions of gallons of water from the aquifer, to sell to adjacent Counties, leaving some wells where I reside dry, or pumping up sand.
Thank God I was led to a Program that drilled a new well, put pipe in, and a new pump into for free. And it was estimated to be a $10,000.00 project, one, I never could have personally afforded.
And so, I now have running water to the house; there just remains a test for bacteria, before it is deemed potable.
Being diabetic I went-today-to have my podiatry done (as only a physician can legally do it), and to pick up my, ‘once-a year' pair of new shoes provided by Medicare.
When I arrived home, the workmen were just finishing the well job; I felt as if some unbelievable weight had been lifted from my shoulders; the worrying, and panicking, all of the despair, while still there, had become as shadows, as insubstantial as all shadows are.
I manage to tip the two workmen, a small, embarrassing amount, but, it was all I had.
It was after they had packed up and gone, that I took my pain medication, patted dog, and changed into my pajamas, seeking to look at, and perhaps respond to, my e-mail.
I discovered that the cable to the computer was out, as-indeed-were both my telephones. I had no way to report the outage, nor of letting BrightHouse know online. I do not have a cell phone, and thus was in finality, cut off from everyone, nor would either telephone connect me to ‘911', should I need to.
At first, I was angered and outdone; until the reality of the situation hit me. For, those of us who live alone, and have no cars, and cannot drive them, anyway, my current situation leaves me trapped within my own home. What if there should be a disaster; what if I should take a nasty fall; what if I should have a heart attack? ‘What ifs' quickly piled onto ‘what ifs'? And, one by one, all the uncertainties and panic rose to the fore.
Luckily, this evening, early, I received-delivered to my home-- a prescription for antibiotics my Podiatrist wants me to take, She so very kindly went across the street to some neighbors, who both happened to be home, in hopes that they will report my telephone service is down, as well as the cable to my computer.
Again I feel my pain levels have increased, as has my panic, and fear.
And...how long will it take before the necessary repairs can be made? Sometimes the process has taken upward of a week,.

And so my most wonderful, and most giving friends, I would wish you lessened, or of ‘no pain'; evenings, not of worry but delight; pantries full, and quiet nights of safe, restorative sleep; financially secure, with just that ‘little bit' hid aside for emergencies, and, at days; end, a lasting sense of peace, and quiet happiness.
I love you dearly,
‘Zahc'/Charles

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

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

03/17/12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'/Charles

' My Random Thoughts, Today, re: S.S.D.I....Part II of II

' My Random Thoughts, Today, re: S.S.D.I., Part II of II

Mar 19 2012

‘ My Random Thoughts, Today, re; S.S.D.I.

Part II of II

03/19/12

To my always kind, supportive, and caring friends at MDJunction, and as their equal, my ever-loyal, wonderful readers,
I cannot-in complete, and utter disdain-rebuke that which I receive to live on every month: my S.S.D.I. ( Social Security Disability Income ), because, without it, my dearest friends, both Daisy (the-best-dog-on-the-planet),and myself would quickly find ourselves out in the streets; and being homeless requires a certain strength, tenacity, and such utter will to survive, which I simply do not have.
Both dog and I would first run-through what relatives I do have left for money, then friends, then acquaintances, hopefully to call in all debts and monies owed.
I have no savings, nor any fund set aside for emergencies; I would be lost, afraid, not knowing what to do, even as my observable health, and mental welfare declined, as quickly, I would fall apart.

In 1975, when-at last-I was away from home and off to college, even then, I knew that plangent need for shelter; a roof over my head, some place to, ‘put my hat'. But the very thought of shelter easily eclipsed the need for food. And there have been at least three times in my life, when I was so completely broke, that, while I often paid $0.20 for two scoops of scrambled eggs and toast, and-since I worked the night shift, and the kitchen was closed, dietary left a largish tray of bread, cold cuts, tomato slices, and those little, annoying packs of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise to make sandwiches; and, for over my first year of employment, that was what I lived on, barley able to pay the rent, and the utilities, and keep gasoline in my poor car. As long as I had an apartment, a place to return to; to sleep and keep my clothes, I was satisfied.

In those dire days, in which we were all broke, some slept in their cars, for I think we mental health techs. made around $2.23 an hour; and in that cheap, cement-block duplex, I went the first summer without A/C., and the first year without heat. And, practically no furniture, except a bed, and a small dining table and chairs. And on winter's cold and blustery nights, I often could hear the wind howling through the jalousie windows, to whip the sheets I used for curtains.

Still...it was a roof-of sorts-over my head, a shelter, a place to...leave from....and to come home to.
Even when my circumstances improved, or, waned, it was always most important to have that roof, and that shelter.

And so-today-any thought that my home, my, roof, might be taken from me causes panic, dread, and alarm. I really don't know what I'd do were I to be forced to live in some shitty A.L.F. that has (and needs to have) built in safes in the bedrooms, or worse, to have to live in some hell-hole of a nursing home, semi-private with perhaps a maniac for a roommate?

And what would become of my dear Daisy, thus cut off, and left to roam the streets? At fourteen?
For she-too is used to a modicum of comfort, and I think it would be more kind to have her put to sleep.
And...what of the so-called life that I have established here? Once my mother and father's home, it has been passed to me, and is MY home, now. There are-of course-a laundry list of things that need repair, or improvement.

Which is why I am occasioned to rail about S.S.D.I., which-when was calculated after decades of employment, and taxed contributions, is still not enough to really live on.
Prices of things have gone up and up; everything that daily touches our lives: groceries, gasoline, utilities, insurance, medical, and prescription costs...everything, except our S.S.D.I. pittance.

Oh yes we did receive two miniscule raises in the past six or seven years, our ‘buying' power is made to be less and less, and less. And what was given with one hand, was just as quickly taken away with the other.

For example, the two, small raises I did get to S.S.D.I., moved me from Medicaid paying all my medical bills ( QMBE ) , now to (SLMBE), in which I am now considered my Medicaid as ‘medically needy, share of cost'.
What that total #90.00 some-odd dollar, in two raises means I have to accrue $830.00 a month in medical expensed, before Medicaid will even think of paying them.
And when, in time, I applied for food stamps, it seemed by them a cause for celebration, when they began to give me, $16.00 a month. And when the excitement had lessened, I asked if they would kindly have their in-house dietician to make up for me a meal plan for $16.00 a month, the agent simply hung the telephone up on me.
On the third of every month, I have my S.S.D.I. check direct deposited into my checking account, and the flurry of bill paying begins, until, about the seventh of the month, more than 3/4ths of my entitlement is gone. Vaporized. Vanished. So...my having worked for thirty-four years, and, paying into Social Security all those years, at 58, this is what I worked for, and what I received. And, those of you still on S.S.I., and Medicaid, do not expect to be as by sweet angels, showered in gold, when your S.S.D.I comes through, for-at very best-it is but a poor substitute for the wages you once worked so hard for, and that you knew. It is no more than a bleak supplement to having that sum of monies that would allow a comfortable life.

And, if like me, your days are wracked by utter agony, and insurmountable pain, we are quite unable to even think about employment. And yet, my dearest friends, many of you are forced to find some kind of work,,, any work that you can still do, despite the pain, and the despairing. And my heart truly goes out to you who have children, or disabled spouses. For how you manage, I have NO idea.

Presently at my income, I am still more than about 45% of the amount considered to be-for one-the National Poverty Index. I am-for example getting around $4,500.--$5,500 a year less than is required to qualify for a ‘Habitat For Humanity' home. Not to mention that, at 58, and so very ill, I could not even put in the ‘sweat equity' that is mandated.
Perhaps, in some kinder comment, you, my very dearest friends, might offer up some ways that help you cope, cope, and survive.

For me, dear friends, the last two weeks of every month is a horror, and the last week, while reassuring, is still terrible. It is then, I begin to borrow from the next month's money

My heart is full for us all, for surely we must, somehow survive; to know some gentled peace at day's end.
The money (when I did have some extra) granted was used, in part, to decorate it, to make its statement mine; but the most of it was used for much-needed repairs to bring it up to code, and make it then, ‘livable'.
I, ever in my whispered prayers, would hope to keep you safe, and ever keep you well; I wish for you, dearest friends, some lessened, or ‘no' pain; the ability to relax from the needful cares of the day, to enjoy this Spring-time's glory; full-surrounded by ones who truly, gladly love you; a pantry that is full to overflowing, with enough to share; a vigilance to always step-up, and report abuse; again, no crippling pain, nor any sort of desperation; evenings of pure delight, your home a welcome beacon as the night descends; and-as ever-nights of pain free, blissful rest, with you, your home, and all who reside within comforted, and kept secure by ministering angels.

Please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc/Charles

' My Random Thoughts, Today, re: S.S.D.I. '

' My Random Thoughts, Today, re: S.S.D.I. '

Mar 15 2012

‘ My Random Thoughts, Today, re: S.S.D.I. ‘

Part I of II, perhaps,

03/15/12

My very dearest, caring friends, and ever-loyal readers, I find I think of you often, so many times during my days, and also at night, when sleep will not come easily, and, when it-at last-arrives, is not lasting, nor refreshing; when, in a sort of groggy, half-wakefulness my mind a-shroud in fatigued restlessness, I consider my own dilemmas, do I have room to consider yours.
I wonder if you've settled for the night, and the house is-at last-quiet, and are perhaps still lying there, with minds consumed by circular thought and worry.
I know that many of you are as I: having been reduced to living a far less than substantial life; always with financial obligations which scream at you for payment; over-due mortgages; or, with some major thing, or appliance kicking out its last, but with no money to have it repaired, not replaced, but merely patched together in prayered hopes that it or they will last some little longer.
To more heartbreaking matters of trying to provide some adequate life for your children, down, and still more down, until you reach the level that I am at today: while that there's still +two weeks before my S.S.D.I check comes in, I have:
1) A now, maxed-out credit card to consider;
2) My Ad Valorum taxes that MUST be paid before month's end.
3) ( And, dear friends...please do not fuss at me for this indulgence ) Having to recompense my cousin (who usually visits me once a week), for cigarettes, a six-pack of beer, and $20.00 in singles which I use to pay the County Medicare Taxi, to take me to my various Doctor's appointments.
4) To save-up, to pay my blessed C.N.A. for two, assisted showers a week; the laundry; and the occasional couple hours on her weekend off, to come and clean the house, lest it quick resembles a ‘monkey pit'.
5) Since I have asked my neighbor now three times, and will not ask, again, for her to go shopping for groceries for me, I must somehow have enough money to telephone-in my order, and pay $30.00 to have the store deliver it to me at home.
6) Trying-somehow-to come up with a grocery list that is manageable, and can be afforded on what's left in my checking account, or any sum still left uncharged with my credit card.
And so, about this time of the month, I spend hours, sitting out at the same kitchen counter which, by default, has oft become my ‘second bed', this time with a glass of tepid team and cooling cup of coffee, with a blank, legal pad, and pen, writing scribbled numbers, and more numbers; each figure a monthly bill, or attempt to calculate the necessary funds for my cousin, and my C.N.A., my face and head a-swirl in a wreath of tobacco smoke, as I frown, and-in having used up each page, tearing it up, and moving to the next, and the next, hoping against hope that, somehow, the addition of these disparate quantities will in as correct a manner as is possible, reveal-at last-some funds remaining at the end of the coming month.
And although I do this every month about now, and doing so, several times over as my financial circumstances change, still, I always hope that I will not have spent myself into oblivion.
And all this is due to the very fixed and nearly immutable amount I receive each month from S.S.D.I. For IT is my only source of income; there are no others.
For those of you, my dearest friends, whose health, and fully diagnosed conditions prevent you from even part time work, and who are trying to be adjudged disabled, and thus eligible for S.S.D.I. ,my having been on it, now, for over seven years, I would, with your most kind permission, tell you of my love/hate relationship with disability income.
First, please, please know, dear friends, and loyal readers, I am most grateful for my S.S.D.I., as it is my only income, without which, I would be living (or, most likely, dying) in the streets, or with my dog Daisy, homeless, trying-somehow-to live in woods, with no oxygen, medications, running water, nor any of the often, taken-for-granted privileges : those countless things we forget, but consider to be part of life in America.
Since S.S.D.I is exactly the same, and the same amount you'd receive if you has suddenly ‘retired' at your age, not at the typical age of 62-70.
It is based upon your best ‘ 40 quarters' , or, ten years of employment when your income had been the highest, resulting in a greater contribution to Social Security by you on your yearly income tax.
Of course, during those ten years, the higher your salary, and thus, contributions, the theoretical higher would be your S.S.D.I

End of Part I of II; Part II to follow,

As always, I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'/Charles

' The Quantity V/S The Quality Of LIfe '

‘  The Quantity  V/S  The Quality Of Life ‘

03/21/12

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

I find that—more and more often—I consider how my Grandparents, and my mother and father died; how they died, and what they died from.

While all of them what one might say were ‘full lives’, living, working, and loving, and, living out their days in rather commonplace routine, which only the occasional illness that might even have been called major, yet, they lived a certain span, and in the course of time, they died.

By then, their minds—while seemingly intake—were overcome by failing bodies: organs, and their corresponding systems seemed to tire, and wear out.

And this ‘breakdown’ seemed in my mind to have followed a longish life, and then suddenly, catch up to them with a vigor, and a relentless force that simply overcame them, and killed them.

Why do I think of them so often, as I both miss them, and valued them, while letting the machineries of their deaths now bother me? I think that they enjoyed the life that was given to them.  I truly find that—so often—how I feel affects the way I feel, and the lost consequences imposed upon me my varied diagnoses, which, in truth, none of them ever had.

No one knew Lupus, or Fibromyalgia, or Chronic Pain, or Chronic Fatigue.  These diagnoses have become my own, in addition to whatever they had, until my list is long, and frequently too much to bear.  When—for example—I have had a ruining migraine since Friday; my pain levels have risen above that which I am supposed to endure.  When the thought of food sickens me; when I awake soaked in sweat, or in incontinence; when sleep comes not easily, nor long in length; when stomach ache drives me into the bathroom seven times or more a day; or when I feel my skin on fire; or when the limits of my ‘safe zone’ extend no further that the house; and I am lost in some despair and agony of pain and depression….what kind of life is this?

Could it—in part—be attributed to several psychiatric causes, such as panic, and agoraphobia; or simple lack of resolve, and inner fight?  Cowardice or accumulated character flaws that at times make of my days an endless hell, and I am too tired to get out of bed?

Days in which no one telephones to inquire how I am, full knowing that my answers will be boringly the same, always the same, until they just get tired of asking; I cannot say I blame them, for if they—by little chance—hope to find in me a difference, a cure, or an epiphany, how much more do they realize that I beg, and pray for that for myself?

And how I hope, one morning, to arise to rub the grateful sleep from my eyes, and feel myself a new man, full of energy and purpose; all pains forgot, fully able to breathe without oxygen, and  to walk without assistance, or my cane.

This past week has been an assortment of tortures: it is the new medicines that were prescribed?  Is it the lack of physical therapy to strengthen my legs so that I do not stumble, or want to fall; or is it some ruction of my assembled conditions that cause the jerking tremors in my hands, elbows, and shoulders, so that—at any second—I drop lit cigarettes upon me to the floor, or splash myself with hot coffee, or manage quite well to miss my mouth with my fork, and flinging food to the counter?

Am I whining, complaining, in raising weakened fist to Heaven, to wonder ‘why’?  Most certainly I am, for I well remember some years before, when none of these issues existed.  For, then I knew health by leaps and bounds; I could—then—eat almost anything I wanted to, and, when I retired for the night—tired, but with a natural fatigue, I slept on and on, to wake refreshed and restored. 

Now, I am NO use to anyone; how can I offer a stretched-out arm to help, when I can’t hold safely, a coffee mug?  How can I offer words of encouragement, when I lack the courage to so?  Twenty-five years ago, when I worked nights in a dreary nursing home, because I had no one to help me, I could lift patients weighing 300+ pounds with some little difficulty, I but I could do it.  Now, I cannot lift a box that weighs—perhaps—thirty pounds, without my back seizing up, and crying out in agony, to leave me hunched-over like an old man, having to find a comfortable place to sit down, hoping that those sharp, and stabbing pains will go away.

I have come to truly hate this life…my life, and can hardly imagine how—over time—my health will worsen. For I think that undeniably the ‘quality’ is gone; I take no pleasure in it.  One day just flows into the next.

Frankly, it is the ‘quantity’ that scares me most.  To imagine—at 58—another twenty years of this, or worse?

Forty years ago, I believe it was in my High School Yearbook, I was asked what it was I most wanted out of life.  Funny, but the answer—then—remains the answer now: that of good food, kind, adult conversation, lowered lamps, and soft music, before a roaring fire.   And maybe, having my writings, my poetry, my piano compositions, and my art readily sought out, to be listened to, or viewed with relish by all attending.  While I knew I did not have the raw talent that would ever produce the story, painting, or music piece strong-enough to define the decades, yet, in my own small world of dear acquaintances, I felt that I had talent enough for that, certainly.

But that long-ago dreamed of lifestyle was never to be; it was simply smothered out of existence by reality; of having to support myself at slave’s work for slave’s wages.  And, always the bills came in, never ceasing to come in; my ‘art’ was something that did not, could not last. Being in itself uncertain, irregular, and frail.

I cannot near in full express to you my admiration for being as equally infirm, and in loath pain who yet manage to hold-down employment;  run a household, caring for your spouses and children; or to those who still have a dream, and can pursue  it, even as your pains pass mine into oblivion.  You have my most profound respect; for the strength that you must summon to meet the needs of your realities.  Frankly, I do not see how you can do it.  I guess that you might in reply just say, “ Because it HAS to be done.” I still find you to be amazing, and inspiring.  Please always know that.

And, please also know, I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles