“
Whenever Dreary Illness To Existing Agonies Of Pain Is Wed, The Ill-struck Mind
Thinks Back Upon The Odd, But Somehow Kinder Hope Instead “
( An entry made up of bits of fluff, delusion, lost
love, and worse; to try to find some lambent comfort written out as prose, and
sometimes verse, or in uncompleted notions, bits of thought, that only pain or
illness knows)
06/05/12
To my very dear, and dearest friends, and gentle,
loyal readers, please know that you are never far from my regard, or the
totality with which I wish you happy, safe, and well.
Just having been seen by my Primary, the ‘winner’
has been announced: on top of all my known agonies of pain, I now have
bronchitis, which—while it seems harmless-enough-- combined with C.O.P.D., and
emphysema, and my having to drag oxygen all around with me, I find that I am,
again, a cat’s whisker from a stay in the dreaded hospital, and so, am being
bombarded with antibiotics, in hopes of being able to remain home, and,
yesterday, had the dosage of them increased 50%.
Now, whenever I take a smaller, compromised breath,
I am like to cough, and the feeling is not unlike having swallowed a
cheese-grater, upside down, along with rib cage pain, that—together—has made me
want to cry…but I am out of tears at present.
At least for myself.
The only vector that comes to mind is my dear
C.N.A., who—last week—came to assist me with a shower. Occasionally she had a little cough, or
sneeze one would otherwise hardly notice; her voice did sound unusual, and she
complained of having problems with her ‘sinuses’.
Try as I can, I cannot ‘germ-proof’ the house
against the world, or even remotely live in some plastic bubble. In truth…it could have been anyone…a neighbor
bringing in the mail, or the man who delivered my groceries, though he seemed
well. And, there’s use to pointing fingers, when illness is the result.
All that I do know, or can say, is that, as a
card-carrying member of the ‘Agoraphobia Club’, and having a shit immune
system, since Friday, I have felt less than alive.
“
Medical ‘1—2—3’s “
06/06/12
To my ever dearest friends, and loyal, steadfast
readers, despite the apparent depth of my resent illness, I somehow feel as if
in some way, I am doing a major disservice to you, for, as my friends and
readers, you sustain me with a joy not found in my day to day living.
I mist—in truth—admit (a little ashamedly) that your
increasing numbers delight me. And my life—it seems—is fully lacking in any kinds
of joy; too often I am consumed with budgets, and of how much I have left to
pay the bills. Thus unrequited, I turn
to you, my precious friends, for some sense of gladness, some sense of purpose.
But there are times—especially when I feel this horrible—the
‘idea’ well seems to want to come up dry, and to this I would attribute a most
severe ‘mind fog’, and a reluctance to even get out of bed.
And I imagine that when you happen to be ill on top
of illness, on top of illness, there soon is reached a point where everything
seems hazy and unreal, not helped in any way by an absent appetite, a
‘drugged-out’ fatigue, until one’s concentration hovers from breath to breath,
and so passes an increasingly long day.
For I now am all these things …and more; how willing
I am to suffer at home, rather than risk a $500.00 ambulance trip, to a
hospital, already creepy-crawly with enough germ, bacteria, and viruses to fund
a thousand illnesses.
Or, the matter of my last hospital stay, with a
roommate who avidly watched extreme horror movies all night, and slept most of
the day; where the mattress and the pillows I was on felt as if filled with
rocks; and both side-rails up (ostensibly, to keep me from falling out of bed),
but kept me—instead—from the bathroom, maybe eight feet away, with urinals,
instead, that slipped down the rails to the floor, or was placed upon the same
bed-side table, where my meals were delivered.
In a matter of two, maybe three days, I felt grimy,
dirty, greasy, until all I most wanted was a long, hot, soapy soak in a tub,
and clean linens placed on the bed, and fresh gowns placed on me.
With my luck, I drew the bed nearest the door, and
all night long, lights shone in, the intercom brayed doctor’s names
incessantly, and I could hear geriatric patients all up and down my wing yell,
“Help!” or “Nurse!”
Thinking upon it all now, there should be (at time
of admission), a huge pill that simply renders one unconscious for the duration
of the stay.
And I haven’t even yet vented my spleen regarding
hospital Emergency Rooms, or, their Waiting Rooms, with a type of ‘herding’
process, that double guarantees that anyone forced to sit, and wait there for
hours, will pick up at least three more conditions, from would-be patients who
could or would not cover a sneeze or cough.
For someone with an already compromised immune system, this is the
equivalent of medical, ‘Russian Roulette.’
To my dear, sweet friends, no matter how you feel, I
would advise going to a hospital as a ‘last course’ of action, such as stroke,
or heart attack.
06/06/12
“Decision
time. Decision time “
However, whenever you’ve become quite ill, and
decide to remain at home…then what to do?
If you have a family, you quickly become just
another thing underfoot. Often times,
your family will shun you, lest they believe you are contagious, and will
severely limit their exposure to you.
Very busy families will be no less busy, and, sometimes (dressed in
stale pajamas, slippers, and robe), when all you might want is for someone,
anyone to kindly make for you a cup of chicken soup, just so you can let the
healing steam help open a clogged nose; you find—instead—that you’re given a
wide berth, largely ignored, and…if you want the soup, you will have to make
it.
For who straightens up the house when you are truly
ill? Who washes the dishes, or the
laundry? And, if you have this fantasy
of being tucked-into bed, with plumped-up pillows, vaporizer going with the
smell of Vicks, with a new box of Kleenex by your side, drapes drawn, and
waited on with nourishing soups, or steaming cups of tea… Lady, you’ve been
reading too much “Family Circle” magazines!
But I can hazard a guess that any male-type-creature
in the house that becomes semi-partly-deathly ill, immediately infantilizes,
and howl as though they already have one foot inside ‘death’s door’. As their temperatures slide toward 101, they
become complete invalids, having to be waited on hand, foot, fin, and beak.
“
The Dreaded Division Of The Sexes, Where Illness Is Concerned “
Whenever a male child is born, they are often, by
the attending doctor slapped to cause them to take their first yell. And thereafter, they somehow seems to never
stop. From, “Honey ! where’s my
shirt!. To, “Honey…where’s
dinner?!”. And what is odd, is that this
man—outside—may be the Manager of some huge company, with piles of decisions to
make every day.
No matter.
When it comes to home, if it doesn’t involve mowing the lawn, or beer,
they devolve into almost utter helplessness.
And, should they ever become really ill, are so
completely unable to care for themselves, that (unless you put a pillow over
his face), you’ll soon swear that you somehow have one more child to tend to.
Times of wide-spread flu are the absolute worst,
especially when whole families are down; then, no matter how very badly the
mother/wife wants to be left alone, soon, you will feel like hired help, but,
without the benefits.
And while this all sounds like stereotypes, in this
Country (at least), it is true. I am
completely serious.
And why do I know that this is true? Because I am a fifty-eight year old male who,
while being very, very ill…still wants my mommy.
“ The Unpleasant Rigors Of Being Ill, And Alone
“
When I was in my twenties, I lived in Tampa, had my
own duplex, worked, ate, and prepared my own clothes. And I was well, young, and strong then. And both my parents were alive, so I still
had some lifelines when I needed them.
In trying to live quite alone, I failed miserably
at:1) keeping the apartment clean; 2) cooking for myself, and 3) doing the
laundry.
After a couple of ‘near death’ experiences at the
laundromat, in which once, I added so much detergent, that as the machine
agitated, the top began to bounce up and down, spewing rivers of suds down the
front of the machine where it gathered in a lake on the floor. This did not go down well with the
laundromat’s owners.
And while I did not earn a fortune, I decided
that—in order to save the environment—I would drop off my dirty clothes one
morning on the way home from work, and then, pick them up washed, dried,
folder, and on hangers the next day after work.
I considered this a necessary treat, and routinely budgeted for the
cost.
When I was but a young lad growing up, my mother,
and dad both worked: though, she, as ‘House Wife’ probably worked three times
harder than did my dad, except, she never got paid for her labors; while he was
away—each day—she kept the house immaculate. For those of you too young to
remember, my mom would weekly mop and strip the wax from the linoleum floors in
the kitchen and bathroom. After scooping
up all that wax, she would make sure the floor was clean, and put down new wax
to make it sparkle.
She actually made her own aprons, and had them all
clean, and folded neatly in a drawer.
Always in the pockets of her aprons were a few clothes’ pins, an odd
button or two, and much like Beaver Cleaver’s Mom, would wear a hose dress with
her apron in front.
It was she who washed, and line-dried the clothes;
some afternoons would find her in the living room, ironing clothes. Socks were not thrown away, but mended. Buttons were replaced. Hems were sewn.
Everything gleamed in the house, and there was no
spot of dust anywhere.
Yet, she still found time to bake, and often would
bake two loaves of Heaven-sent bread, and wrapping one in gingham, in a basket,
still warm, she sometimes took a loaf of homemade bread to a neighbor who was
ill, or simply…just because.
It was she who rubbed Vicks in my nose when I was
sick (which was often), and slathered that junk all over my chest, covering it
with a towel, and with a flannel pajama top.
The thermometer was near at hand, and the vaporizer ran constantly.
“
Flash Forward To A More Recent Past “
When—at last—I lived alone, I quickly found that,
genetically, I was incapable of trying to keep my duplex clean; all too
quickly, I learned that being both a ‘pack rat’, and a ‘slob’, were qualities
that did not I any way help one another.
After a few attempts at trying to sweep clean my apartment’s linoleum, I
final up and laid cheap throw rugs over all.
The unused half of my double bed became a resting place for everything I
had intended in the past six months to read.
I did—however—keep the bathroom clean, as, some I had seen had blackened
tubs, with just a small space to stand to take showers. Yuck.
Gradually, my little home became the growing
repository for books, newspapers, magazines, and—strangely—calendars.
And…dust. And so, about once a year, I
hired ‘Merrie Maides’, who, frankly, did not look all that ‘merrie’, to come,
hose out the house, and make it clean again.
And for a matter of months, it would look as if humans lived there.
“
Kindly Keep Your Cookbooks; Make Mine ‘Kraft’mac-n-cheese-in-the-box “
I never wanted to ‘fuss’ with supper, wanting only
to fill up that hole of hunger with something cheap, reliable, and, very, very
easy to make. I never wanted to invest
more time cooking something than it took to eat it.
Frankly, I ate so much ‘mac-n-cheese, it’s a wonder
that I did not look jaundiced; many’s where—for convenience’s sake, I ate it
directly from the pot I cooked it in with the same spoon, as I stood over the
sink; afterwards, there was just one pot to wash, one spoon, and one strainer.
Or…sometimes you could buy those little Banquet pot
pies for 5/$1.00; I especially liked the ones that had the bottom crust.
I also ate a LOT of bologna and Nacho Dorito
sandwiches, with mayonnaise. To this
day, those are still great! You’ve got
to schmush them together, though.
“Please
Bear With Me, As I’m Nearly Done, Or Just, ‘Done in’ “
Surely, by now, I must have two-dozen diagnoses, I
guess, what’s one or two more. Until I
again feel more like myself, please excuse inconstant and/or jumpy posts. For, really, all I want to do is try to sleep
it off.
I really have no one to ‘care for me’, but I would
only be a giant baby in consequence, if I did.
For you, my dear, dear friends, I wish days and days
of lessened or of ‘no pain’; no random, ugly little illness such as mine. I wish you family and friends attend to you
with all their love; I wish you happiness and joy in everything you do.
I wish you plenty and peace all around you.
And, at the end of day, I wish for you a blessed,
restful sleep, free of nightmare or distress.
And—as
always—please know I love you dearly!
‘Zahc’/Charles
