"Nocturnal,'Omissions', And Other Ironies"

 

“Nocturnal Omissions And Other Ironies”

 

 

 

03/30/13

 

 

 

As always to my very, very dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers,

 

Beginning some three years ago, I found myself most willingly giving up any possible hope of maintaining any semblance of a regular schedule.

 

This did not happen overnight, but by hours lost, confused, or mislaid here and there, and, why not?

 

Neither my father nor my mother are still alive to care for.  In becoming disabled, I no longer had a job, nor any need to keep, ‘business’, hours. 

 

When I could no longer drive, and gave up my car, daytime and nighttime hours gradually blurred into one.  With the exception—still—of my having to keep doctor’s appointments (which I must mark upon my calendar lest I forget them!), what remaining, ‘schedule’, I had—in dosing times for my medications—slipped into a kind of twenty-four hour/seven day existence.

 

I ate when I could no longer ignore the distraction of hunger; I went to the bathroom whenever I felt compelled to do so.  Of course, I do not smoke in bed, but do anytime I am awake and roaming the house.

 

Yes, I tried very hard, to retain a, ‘sleep-at-night’, pattern, as I did not want to drift-into sleeping all the day long, and then lying in bed—uselessly—sweating-through my clean pajamas, tossing and turning making a complete disarray of my bed linens.  And all the while preoccupied by silly, stupid, ranging thoughts as the hands on the clock moved as slowly as did the glaciers.

 

All this does—my dearest friends—is to make me fretful, uncomfortable, and quite unpleasant to be around.

 

During these endless, sleepless nights, I would find myself sitting out in my office chair at the kitchen counter, too fatigued to make any kind of plans, and—of course—smoking cigarette after cigarette until—finally, somewhere around 6:00 a.m., both blurry-eyed, and wuzzle-headed—I decided that the night had been killed deader-n-hell, and that I might as well make a pot of coffee or two, my face as grey as the dawn.

 

 

Living alone—as I do—doesn’t help, either, as I have no one around me with regular hours to keep.

 

I try—now—to avoid taking naps altogether, lest they manage—in some way—to despoil any chance at nighttime repose.

 

 

But this has proven to be a failure as well.

 

 

March has been an awful month.  After having been wearily ill from—really—the middle of February, my Primary finally diagnosed me with chronic, bronchial pneumonia, Lupus set on overdrive, 3+pitting edema in both calves from knees to toes (imagine looking down at your legs to find your calves and feet easily three times their normal size, bright red, and with feet that look like misshapen blobs.

 

Not only is this horrifically painful in itself, but is an agony and a refusal to want to bear weight (which means I fall…once, on the second step down the back deck, which threw me into a grand arc out into the backyard, covering me with dirt and leaves).

 

I simply cannot afford to lose my ability to stand, and to walk; the consequences are absolutely unacceptable. Even if I have to crawl to a chair or table to gain my balance, ANYTHING is preferably to being placed in some shithole of a nursing home.

 

A side-effect of all the medications I must take is that they—singly, or together—have markedly altered the taste of food…there goes one pleasure left to me. I really hate having to try to cook for myself, anyway.

 

I have become too unable to withstand the pain, and so double-dose the opiates that I have, plus the ones prescribed for me by my Primary; and, is it enough?  It HAS to be enough, dearest friends.

 

Often, I have considered the awful and unrelieved symptoms of fibromyalgia, with its associated pain, and terrible vacuity and absence of contemplation, and any higher thought processes.

 

And so, this, ‘mind fog’, troubles me throughout the day, but is especially severe at night; somehow, I find the hours from 8:00p.m. to midnight are almost completely lost to me, until I can no longer recall when (or if) I have retired to bed, nor whether I have slept, until I usually find myself out in the kitchen—again—there dozing on and off until I can make myself go back to bed, or to stay awake until morning.

 

 

And my poor, poor Daisy seems to be alive at the cellular level only; I keep her medicated for pain, and—at nightfall—give her just enough tranquilizer to help her drift off into some kind of peaceful, canine realm.  Still, when I slowly, and agonizingly get down to the floor to hold her, give her, ‘little, doggie kisses’, and scratch her ears, telling her just how beautiful she is, and just how very much I love her, still, she will look up at me, and slowly wag her tail. And that—alone, my precious friends makes my heart both happy and sad.

 

We both are in some hell of a state: Daisy can no longer much control her bowels, and neither of us can without difficulty go down the steps of the deck into the yard.  I am afraid that she will fall, or that I will fall (unless I sit down upon the steps, and push-myself down, one step at a time).

 

 

And as I have mentioned so many times before, my S.S.D.I. is no longer able to take us through the month.  Have you ever had a credit card with an available balance of only $25.00 before being maxed-out?

 

 

About three weeks ago, during an appointment to see my, ‘Shrink’, even though it was still morning, I had had a shit day all the way around, was angry and frustrated, and—frankly—had had quite enough.

 

I was incautious, and let slip the, ‘S’, word (that rhymes with, ‘try-and hide’). I knew he had perked-up his ears when he asked me if I had a, ‘plan’?

 

Oops, my friends…time to backpedal like hell, for with scarce a blink of an eye—and with one, telephone call—he could have had me shipped post haste to the nearest loony bin.  Like THAT would help, sweet Jesus!

 

When I told him my, ‘plan’, was to jump out the first floor windows, only to find myself entangled and swearing into the shrubbery below, he sat back, and actually laughed, telling me it was the best joke he had heard all week.  And truth be told—my very dearest friends—it is a joke, all of it is a joke, a joke from start to finish.

 

 

No hospital on earth can mend a broken heart.

 

 

Of course we all have fantasies; that usually begin, “If I only won the Lottery…”

 

Even still, with tax-free millions at my disposal, I have never thought of being—somehow—younger, better looking, or…well.  Those are the miracles that reduce the chances of winning the Lottery to those less the toss of a coin.

 

For nothing can wash away the sorrow, refresh the tired mind, or ease-away incalculable rage.

 

 

What will take away those cold, empty, and forgotten hours from eight ‘til midnight, and—instead—restore some sense of meaning, or of purpose, or of joy?

 

 

I think that what I miss most (in its most innocent, and untroubled sense) is someone to kiss me goodnight.

 

 

 

 

Oh, my dearest, sweetest friends, and constant readers, please, please forgive me for the absence of my posts.  I think of you so very often, and wish so much for you no pain, no lasting or lingering pain, or certainly much lessened pain. 

 

I wish no never need know want, but have more than enough to enjoy what life has to offer.  I wish you freedom from despair, or loneliness; I wish you calm and pleasant days, and quiet, serene nights of blissful sleep.

 

I wish you full—surrounded by family members, dearest friends (and, pets, too!), who love you for the most wonderful person you are!

 

And most of all, I wish you all the joy and happiness that your kind, and thoughtful hearts can hold!

 

Please know that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Its Two: Three-Four A.M...."

“Its Two: Three-Four A.M….”

 

 

03/10/13

 

 

To my very, dearest friends, and constant readers here at MDJunction,

 

 

 

 

I

 

 

 

“Its two: three-four a.m., and I could use a friend

to—perhaps—sit quiet with me here

until my shaking stops, and all of my most recent nightmares end;

and pause, to wipe-away a tear.

Or, was it just a leg cramp and a migraine that drove me out of bed

to find my way out to my kitchen chair, instead?

For I could use a kind, devoted friend to help calm every fear

until, whatever bleak angels I could summon-up, attend.

 

 

 

II

 

 

 

It’s two: five-six a.m., and I could use an arm

to hold me up when I cannot find my way;

one whose steady strength would keep me safe from harm ( or, to help me don my socks to keep me warm ! ).

As untold, ‘Fibro-flare’s’ unutterable agony blurs the sight, and makes all stationary objects sway.

To help me to the bathroom down the hall,

when a tired unsteadiness might make me fall.

That arm ( and hand ) so gently touch the crying pain away

and somehow reassures from all alarm.

 

 

 

III

 

 

 

It’s four: one-eight a.m., and I could use a voice

that—patiently—would ever speak to me in quiet tones:

“Your illness never was your choice…

You have nothing to atone.”

Although its very late, and, both of us still up,

please light my trembling cigarettes, and share my mug of coffee, heated up.

“Although you may feel so lonely, yet you have never been alone.

You didn’t realize that others love you too?  For that, alone, rejoice.”

 

 

 

IV

 

 

 

It’s five: two-six a.m., and I could use a prayer;

some whispered words of hope, from an ever-gentle heart,

to cause some lasting comfort to be visited there.

Oh, kind, enduring friend, please stay with me until the dawn…its greying light impart.

The medication—by itself—can never chase away all pain, all fear.

Instead…a grateful prayer, while said with growing sigh, is answered back, that God is always near,

and that—despite my often tortured, lonely pain—He will always keep us in his loving care.

 

 

 

V

 

 

 

It’s eight: one-five, a.m., and I could use some sense of ease.

Oh, dearest friend, how can I near in full thank you for keeping quiet vigil with me, ‘til the accumulated medications take effect?

For who else would—without question—ruin their day from lack of sleep, to tend to my desires?

For your unselfish kindness in my frequent hours of need, helped keep my monsters far away; I cannot help but offer you my love, and my respect.

The house and street—less quiet now—moves into another day, the twin to all the others.

While dear Daisy sleeps most fitfully on the rug, at fourteen, she—too—has pain, not unlike my own, which—unchecked—leeches life away, and smothers.

Remorse, regret, and sorrowed pain, will repeat an infinity of times I suspect,

but in your greater good, my caring friend, please know I wish you joy, true happiness…and peace.

 

 

 

 

End

 

 

 

Please know that I think of you so very often, and that I can never thank you enough for your having befriended me.

 

And, please always know that I love you dearly!

 

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"A Walk Along A Mostly Silent Shore Beside An Endless Sea

“A Walk Along A Mostly Silent Shore Beside An Endless Sea”

 

‘Impressions Of An Alien Landscape’

 

 

 

03/06/13

 

 

 

To my ever-dearest friends, and always kind and steadfast readers,

 

 

 

Behind me, a length of misshapen footprints already made vague and indistinct in the wet and sinking sands that fill and empty, fill and empty with a soft and relentless tide; soon this record of my passing will be erased so that no one—save myself—will ever know that I was here.

 

 

Ahead—at an unmeasureable distance is an over-large, lambent, setting sun that dimly lights the grey green air.

 

The waves hardly make a sound; in the distance gulls and other raucous sea birds echo in the sky as they dart with no apparent plan. Theirs is a lonely sound, but then, you already knew that.

 

 

My cane, in the mire of gritty sands makes me unsteady, and I have torn my clothes…bleeding from a myriad of tiny cuts upon the sharp rocks, which glisten with a sleek blue/blackness in that fading light.

 

But, what is the purpose of this singular and sad journey? In feeling the gathering coolness into blackening sky, where only now, faint tiny stars give stark evidence of the coldness of night; my insubstantial coat ruffles as the night descends.

 

 

I am no stranger to this place where land and sea are seamlessly joined.  What is the meaning of this walking dream state?  And why must I stumble onward?

 

Too many opiates cloud the mind, and ready thought eludes my grasp.  Could this be a kind of death?  This lonely place where pain follows pain, and none are in even saddened measure relieved.

 

And yet, I feel compelled to walk on and on; I fear to hesitate.  Somehow, I know I dare not even stop an instant, for the winding gulls and sweeping sea birds fly ever just ahead. And with a great—though insincere—insistence mock me,

 

I have no compass.  No recourse but to pursue this jagged bank until I find that place where sun meets sea.  And there, find some respite, no, not respite, but a more permanent sense of peace.

 

Meanwhile, the sea offers no reassurance; who—then—will go with me?  Who will patiently guide me, and comfort me?  Who can—with greater strength--authorize my rest, and in some kindness, steady my cane?  Who will protect me from the ravening of sea birds, and relentless gulls should they obscure my path? Who will offer gifts to me of brightened coral and silvery shells?

 

 

I am so tired.  And too weary of this place; I want to lie down upon some stretch of drier sand, perhaps some guarded place among the rocks, protected from the now measurable coldness. Upon a hastily-made bed of piquant and decaying kelp, conveniently washed up upon the shore just for that purpose.

 

Who will willingly stay with me through the long night? Who will whisper to me ancient secrets that the sea—itself—keeps secret?

 

 

 

For now, an end.

 

 

 

Oh, my very, very dearest friends, even in some great distress I think of you so often, and wish for you no pain, nor sorrow, nor sense of need or want.

 

Your comfort and your happiness resound in me a consonant joy; yes…I can truthfully say that.  And further, that you need never feel alone, but are surrounded by family, true friends (and, devoted pets!) who love you and care for you!

And that you be able to enjoy the goodness of life, and—of course—I would gladly wish for you all the happiness that your kind hearts can hold!

 

 

And—as always—please know that I love you so very dearly.

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Through Eyes Of Broken Glass"

“Through Eyes Of Broken Glass”

 

 

March 4, 2012

 

 

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

 

 

I

 

 

Sad. Sadness. I am so very, very sad.

I touch the sadness in the empty air.

I taste the sadness on my tongue and it makes hesitant my words; it is a language written in silence.

It is not as all-consuming as is dark depression, that catches the breath, and is depended upon every movement, every pulse beat. 

I know so well that, ‘other’; a seeming endless depth of despair which rises in the body to paralyze the arms and legs, obliterating all thought as it devours the soul.

It is like a blackish and blood red tide which—in rising up—sweeps all away before its relentless path.  There is a sickness of the mind that bends all senses to itself; making even slightest movement difficult. Suborning the appetite; food becomes ashes in the mouth.

The very body seems to collapse, seeking to become as small as possible, to lie with legs and arms and body drawn up to hide in the center of the bed, motionless, with stifling bed clothes pulled up past the ears.

 

While deep depression seeks to destroy the very soul, sadness—being less severe, somehow—is like a gentle and semi-sweet ache that plays-about the heart.

Sadness is like sitting quietly before a window, looking out through a blurred and rain-speckled window to an abstraction of blurred and blowing trees outside the frame to a grey and liquid day; and yes—in sadness—the heart feels exactly the same way: bleak, somehow foggy, distant, ill-remembered and yet familiar.

Sadness is so ready, full-encouraged by the sounds of all-day rain upon the roof.

Ever so lightly are played long ago, and almost forgotten memories.

Sadness smells like a dusty attic into which have been thrown boxes of old clothing, and neglected Christmas ornaments; of pictures without frames, frames without pictures, dirty and fly-specked mirrors. Cards and letters from absent or now long-dead friends.

Sadness has a taste of moth balls, ancient stuffed toys, dusty heavy curtains, and faded flowers.

My sadness with its own pained sense of remorse and regret plays around the edges of deep depression, lest it fall in.  The sadness is—for now—enough to bear.  More than enough, really; but the heart in its sweet despairing manages to avoid the far-greater agony of depression’s despair.  Which I realize makes absolutely no sense, but in my longing I find it to be true.

 

In the measured quiet of my cluttered, dirty and neglected house, my sadness is a silence which still presses upon the ears.

Memories from some long-ago time ripple to the surface, and the Present.  In my too quiet house I hear the faint echo of children happy, laughing. Sometimes I think I hear a door pulled shut, or drawer pulled closed.  A polite knock upon the door; the sounds of a thousand black birds as they gathered in the back yard to eat pieces of bread thrown to them by my mother and father.

And—yes—into the void of quiet suffering, I often hear my name; my long-late mother and or father calling me.  Even though I know it cannot be, still—in my wearied sadness—I return their calls.  And then—with a force—realize how very much I love them, and need them, and miss them. And that no amount of pleading or tear-stained prayers could save them.

 

Conversely, I recall a time when everyone I knew who was so dear to me was still alive and well; the repetition of destroying illness and death lay within an unknowable Future.

 

However—in my plangent sadness—when I might have chance to see one of the very few toys that survive till this day (and some are as nearly old as am I !), I do not see myself as I might have been then, but—in truth—see no one that I even remotely recognize. I actually have—among a few other things—a stuffed toy rabbit that my grandmother gave me for my 1^st. birthday (now, fifty-eight years ago). It has lost a lot of stuffing, and is very dirty, besides.

How, ‘crazy’, would I be to dig it out of the dusty box that it is in from the closet, and place it once more upon my bed, as if I might find some slight comfort in doing so?

 

 

 

II

 

 

My sadness does not concern itself with a largely-forgotten Past only, but extends to try—in full—to capture and to embrace an almost unbearable Present.

Never mind the situation that I now find myself in, for that is something already too often mentioned, and focused upon.

What makes me sad are the promises—so glibly made—but that were never intended to be kept; the false smile…the ready lie.  How quickly was I dismissed as some irksome and unnecessary fool.  The, ‘shadenfreunde’.  The mendacity.  The too-well-dressed Social Workers.  The draconian Pain Management.  The overflowing pile of pills that collectively can never, ever take away the pain.

The situations that make me have to beg.

The situations that make me cry in fury.

The situations that have only, ‘one’, end, one that I need hardly mention.

 

 

III

 

 

My dearest friends, I have no idea—whatsoever—why my dear Daisy is still alive.

Her measurable decline began sometime last July; at least, that’s when the veterinary bills started to roll in.

Her stomach is distended, and she has lost weight.  Several of her leg joints are swollen out of proportion by arthritis. She only picks at—well—those expensive, tiny cans of food (3.2 ounces that cost as much as a regular can of dog food); The, ‘flavors’, all have cute names, but I now know the ones that she will eat, and the ones that provide scant-enough nourishment for her to survive.

It has become a horrible existence.  Every time Daisy looks up at me it is though a dull-eyed glaze of pain, discomfort, accusation, and—I fully believe this—a sort of wearied, “Help me, Daddy!”

I imagine that some would accuse me of being uncaring.  Of being selfish.  Of being…stupid; and in this, they might be right, as I love Daisy dearly, and have had a most faithful, and loving canine companion now for over thirteen years.  And that—somehow—I just cannot seem to, ‘just let go’.

 

Hardly anyone has encouraged me to have Daisy put to sleep.  The base-line truth is: I cannot afford to euthanize her.

To have the vet come to the house, put Daisy to sleep here, take her to the clinic to have her cremated and then returned to me in some token, ceremonial urn costs $400.00!

Even to have Daisy put down here, for me to bury in the backyard costs $248.00.

 

I can hardly afford Daisy’s medications; I most recently ordered four of her prescriptions (including her pain medication) only filled for half the month cost $135.00. I have even had to reduce the filling of my own prescriptions to those most needed, and for half a month only.

The truth is (if there—in fact—be any truth to be found) that even though I have been greatly ill, and in unutterably, unstoppable pain, and that seeing Daisy so ill, tiny, and helpless makes me sick, I am afraid.  I cannot just blithely kill her, as though she were—somehow—an inconvenience.  I am saddened and afraid; afraid, maybe, to be alone…isolated, cold, and alone, ever a prisoner in my own home.

 

As it is, I do try to keep Daisy as comfortable as possible; I try to keep her dosed-up, especially in pain medication; and—at night—I give her a small tranquillizer to her relax, and doze-off to sleep.

She is now quite unable to walk down the back steps to the backyard.  Sometime before, I had to go, pick her up, and then place her back on the deck.

I have puppy incontinent disposable pads which I place on the floor.  And I really do not care if she uses them.

 

Meanwhile, she still follows me from room to room, but she now takes longer to get comfortable and lie down. Often, I will get down on all fours’ to whisper in her ear, and to tell her that she is beautiful, and that I love her so very, very much.  And on some elemental level, I hope with all my heart that she knows this.

And…that she forgives me.

 

I now look at her so many times during the day just to make sure that she is still breathing; Dr. Weston—Daisy’s vet—says that the, ‘end’, will happen at any time, now.  And, my dear friends, each night, when I retire to bed for yet another broken, pain—filled, nightmared and inconstant sleep, I might awake at any time to find her dead on the rug beside my bed.

 

When that time does come, I will have her buried in the backyard at the entrance to the wooden shed where—thirteen years ago, on a November day in 1999—my late mother and I first found her.  I will have Daisy wrapped in a special throw I’ve kept for years which is pink, and all-over hearts.

Somehow…it just seems, ‘right’.

 

 

IV

 

 

Sad.  Sadness.  I am so very, very sad.

There is no specific medicine that will take this heavy weight of sadness from me. I awake in panic and to sadness, and it lasts the whole day long, until too weary, I crawl into bed at night.

I over-take what meds I dare in hopes that restful sleep will come at last.

For Daisy.  For me, and for all of us kept safe until the new day’s light.

“Sweet Savior, grant us peace and ever-respite from all sadness seen through eyes of broken glass.”

 

Oddly, the one thing that does make me happy is to see Daisy eat her food!

 

 

My very, very precious friends, please know that—although I now post with marked irregularity—I think of you so often, and wish for you no pain, or, if that is not to be, then of lessened pain.

I wish that you be kept safe, and secure, and free from want or need.  And that you be in full, surrounded by family, and true friends (and…pets!) who love you, and who treasure you.

And I wish for you all the happiness your kind hearts can hold!

 

 

And please always know that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles