“Apart
From The Obvious, It Never Really Does End, Does It”
08/13/13
To
my dearest, dearest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,
So many, ‘things’, in our lives have a very definite
beginning and end; think of books, movies, poems. Think also—too—of that, ‘special’, gourmet
lunch, a memorable vacation; perhaps—even—of a not-so-memorable love affair.
For the most part, this linear progression can be
found in the most common of illness; for, no matter how bad was your case of
flu, and even though (through the inevitable, ‘twisting and turning’, of time)
you may well-feel as if you’ll never be rid of it, still…in time, those awful
symptoms will subside, until—one day—that bout of flu shrinks to an irksome
recollection, before it disappears from memory’s landscape altogether.
But among the myriad,”…slings and arrows…” up with
which we must put, are those often, ‘one time’, incidents, accidents,
unexpected and rogue surprises that—once they hit us quite unawares,
nevertheless have continuing altering, and profound effects on us, that once
clobbered, we stay forever changed, forever flawed.
When my precious canine companion, “Daisy”, died,
just because her physical presence is no longer here, she remains safely tucked
away in my memory, and in my continuing sadness, will be forever imprinted on
my heart. That it is just part of the
natural cycle of life, my heart still rejects your science.
And later, when my home was broken in to—while I
innocently slept-away, the understanding of just how very dangerous the
situation could have become has worked a change in me, in how I now view my
home as, ‘safe refuge’.
Before, I had always believed that my front door
(my, “Portal OF Fate”), would successfully separate me from the vagaries and
dangers of the outside world.
Now, weeks after the robbery, it is as if my cozy
retreat had been breached by faceless monsters, and—was now—no longer a safe
refuge against the world. And I was made to realize the shocking truth that—in effect—all
of us are, in some way, ‘victims in practice’.
And so—although I can scare afford it, I have
engaged the services of, “A.D.T.”, to alarm my doors, and mark my windows; to
place a length of lumber along the bottom of the sliding-glass door so that—now—it
can only be opened by breaking the glass out of it. (by which time—as I was
assured by the salesman—alarums would sound, and the police sent for…all of it—really—to
buy time. And judging by our local law enforcement agent’s remarkably slow
response time, that purchased, ‘time’, would give me—not some place to hide, as
there is none—but, regrettably, to, ‘arm’. And, frankly my dearest, sweetest
friends, I truly do not think I have the, ‘guts’, for that.
Formerly, I was hesitant, and actually afraid to go
to bed at night for the horrible nightmares, that any attempt at sleep would
invariably bring.
Add to that now a genuine fear of someone—anyone—breaking-in
again; and so, every, little sound outside, or errant noise, or, anything above
absolute silence makes sleep fretful, erratic, and largely unrestorative.
Before I finally do go to bed—after having earlier
locked the doors, and set the alarm—I still feel compelled to check and recheck
them again, making sure that all the outside lights are on.
And so, my dearest friends, I have begun the long
application process to be given a, “service dog”, one that will ever-keep me
company through the long days, and even longer nights.
One that is a trained, ‘watch dog’, ready on the
alert, able to see, hear, and smell things thousands of times better than any
human can.
From the extensive literature, these, “service dogs”,
would be able to interpret possibly dangerous changes in my glucose level; I
being diabetic.
Furthermore, I have been told that they are a most
remarkable anodyne to the despair of, ‘P.T S.D.’ (Post, Traumatic Stress
Syndrome), a sure help for anxiety, or depression.
Assistance with my mobility would help rheumatoid arthritis,
and my concurrent agoraphobia. The ability to retrieve objects would help
shore-up the decreasing use of my right hand from neuropathy, among other
debilitating conditions.
The Florida-based company to which I am making my
application is:
Guardian Angels Medical Service Dogs, Inc.
3251 NE 180th Ave.
Williston, Fl., 32696
Tel: (352) 425-1981
They specialize in very well-trained German Shepherds
that are large, formidable, responds to commands, AND, has—in consequence—a a
deep, and threatening growl that will not only alert me, but also hopefully,
will send any would-be thieves packing.
As that very kind Deputy said to me, “Having such a
trained watch dog is you first and best line of defense.”
Should I successfully qualify to receive a service
dog, I am sure it will counter my sense of loss and loneliness that—too—seems destined
to be without end.
Such, ‘conditions’, that I now have been diagnosed
with are marked—not by eventual recovery—but, rather, that trace an invisible
arc of decline and disability. Having
passed-through that, ‘refiner’s fire’, that is Lupus, Fibromyalgia, Chronic
Pain, and Chronic Fatigue to a state of often unimaginable pain and distress,
the only, ‘end’, possible is the finally inevitable one of oblivion.
What happens after that, my dearest and truest
friends, are trembling, inchoate notions of eventual transformation, and
much-hoped-for bliss.
Meanwhile, this afternoon, I had chest x-rays taken—after
evidence of lower, left lobe lung congestion—to rule out pneumonia.
This, after a five pound weight gain in just two
days, and increasing edema (swelling)in my legs and feet.
I need hardly mention, again, that I am in debt up
to my eyelashes, and it—too—seems, not cyclical, but rather heralding-in a
prolonged state of deprivation, and just plain, ‘having to do quite without’.
There’s no use trying to measure the length of final
straw that breaks one’s back. Little
things pop up here and there to further stir the shit pot.
If I may be allowed to say so, I do enjoy my
computer time, whether I watch videos of cute puppies and kittens, vintage
automobiles, or estates for sale; looking at differently furnished rooms in a
style, and on a scale that makes me sigh.
And causes me ever again to question the purpose of illness and misery;
of faulty genes, and station of birth, I suppose.
Often, I sit in front of the computer screen with an
ashtray, and ever-lit cigarette, and brimming glass of iced tea to my left, and
computer mouse, and cup of lukewarm coffee to my right.
The neuropathy so advanced in both hands that I can
no longer cross my fingers for, ‘luck’, with the right hand, nor make the
Vulcan, ‘prosper’, ‘V’-shape; no longer readily able to use a knife, hold a
fork, or stir a spoon.
So you might know that I was just about to reclaim
my computer chair, ready to place refills of both iced tea and coffee, that the
large glassful of iced tea slipped effortlessly from my fingers, to spill all
over my computer desk, to run under the modem, the speakers, and my portable
telephone, rendering all of them useless!
In an ensuing fit of pure pique, all I could seem to
say was, “DAMN. DAMN. DAMN. DAMN. DAMN,” even as I hurriedly hobbled out to the
kitchen for reams of paper towels to try to mop-up the sugary mess.
What’s next? I frankly have no idea regarding what
plugs into what, and where, and how.
Luckily, I saw my neighbor out, walking her dog, and
managed to ask her to please call the cable company, to have someone—anyone—come
out to fix this nightmare.
Meanwhile—my dear, dear friends, it’s gonna be a
very long, too quiet, and empty evening ‘til bedtime.
So please…tell me how YOU cope when most everything
turns to crap? Or am I merely constructing a, ‘straw man’, to later set on fire
at my inescapable leisure? And…it’s only Tuesday; so early—yet—in the week for
calamity.
Please feel quite free to leave comment, below.
Please
know that I think of you so very, very often, and that I love you dearly!
‘Zahc’/Charles
