“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
