“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 180^th 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

"A Lengthy Response To A New Friend At MDJunction"

08/07/13

My dear new friend, ‘durham423’,

Please do forgive the lateness of my reply, as I know that you had asked me for information and/or advice, and I did not want you to think that I had either forgotten you, or was neglectful.

If you have not already done so, ‘durham423’, I would ask that you kindly read my profile here at MDJunction, in order to get to know my situation better.

Also—as you have seen—I do write the occasional diary entry; sometimes it is rant.  Sometimes it is prose; sometimes—more rarely, now—it is poetry.

Joining MDJuction was one of the most singular, best things that I have ever done as I have met so many co-sufferers, or those whose mental disturbances or physical complaints differ from my own.

Always, ‘durham423’, the members have been most kind, accepting, and supportive, and I now have wonderful friends, four of whom I speak with on the telephone on a fairly regular basis; others have kindly shared their private e-mail addresses.

I would also ask, please, that you might refer to any of my diary entries which may prove to be of some help or interest to you and your husband.

‘durham423’, please first accept the disclaimer that I am not a licensed therapist, nor professional, so that anything I might say is the product of my own thought and experiences.

You stated that your husband has been recently diagnosed as having Lupus; it—along with Fibromyalgia, Connective Tissue Disorder, and Rheumatoid Arthritis—is among the auto-immune system diseases.

Others (to the best of my recollection) would include Lou Gerhigs’s Disease, Crohen’s Syndrome, and Huntington’s Corhea.

There are specific bloodwork targets that indicate the propensity of developing these conditions, and possibly their progress and intensity.

As they represent difficiencies in the immune system, they attack at the cellular and organ or brain level.

With Fibromyalgia—for example—few external signs are evidenced, thus, some of these conditions are often referred to as, “the illness(es) that has no face.”

Consequently, many individuals thus afflicted are often called lazy, not wanting to work, an excuse—often—to try to obtain disability income.  And it is not only members of the public who feel that way; too many times, I have seen family members and even formerly good friends incapable of understanding just how serious, painful, and incapacitating these conditions are.

Thus, the individual so afflicted often feels alone, isolated, depressed, and despairing.

 

As your husband has been definitely diagnosed with Lupus, there are—now—a number of specific medications that can be brought to bear to help relieve symptoms.

Some that spring to mind are:

1)         Placquenil

2)         Lyrica

3)         Gabapentin (Neuronton) for nerve-induced pain

However, these medications are not without potential side-effects which may limit their application.

 

For example, ‘durham423’, since I am Diabetic, Type II, and have a dangerous tendency to retain fluid abdominally, and from knee to both feet, I found that both Neurontin and Lyrica caused a marked increase in fluid retention, and so, I had to stop using them.

 

Your husband may have Lupus alone, or it may be coupled with Fibromyalgia, etc. which—given the extent of the illness, can be truly life-altering.

He may have chronic pain and/or chronic fatigue.  He may run low-grade elevations in temperature, and may become sick easily after only casual contact.

I also suffer from G.A.D. (generalized panic disorder), which includes, panic attacks, anxiety, depression, and agoraphobia (whereby I find it difficult, if not impossible to venture outside my home).

Thus, in addition to seeing a Pain Management Primary, I also regularly see a mental health therapist, and am also on medications for G.A.D.

 

Personally, I have found my own conditions—over time—to gradually worsen, with, ‘plateau’, periods in-between.

 

Please also forgive me, ‘durham423’, as I do tend to run overlong; it is a habit I cannot seem to be rid of.

 

For comparison’s sake, ‘durham423’, I would like to include—now—the first diary entry I ever made to MDJunction, on July 31, 2010, in hopes that it can be used as illustration.

 

"Oh, how the body and the mind admixed with suchlike medicine to work their rough magik upon the Soul”

07/31/11

Today has been a day most strange; I awoke from sheer nightmare to pain beyond pain, and lumbered out to the kitchen (a little past 5 AM) to take my opiate medications with shaking hands, as if I were touching gold. For me, it IS gold, of a kind more rare than genuine gold, for I know, hope and pray that somewhere amid that overlong 'launch window', the major part to the pain will subside, though not completely disappear, as a Minotaur in its Maze.  Instead, I sat at the kitchen counter, with my head in my hands, as I had such pain that induces chills, and a coldness deep within.  For a long time, I sat there, really without conscious thought, an amoeba in my own home; the kitchen lights were unusually bright as in a bus station, and my dear dog just would not leave me alone; she kept circling my legs, occasionally scratching me with her paws, or, butting her nose into my crotch as I sat there.  In a small voice, I kept begging her to stop scratching at me as it hurt, yes...another pain upon pain. Maybe she was worried, maybe she was concerned; but I tell her to not scratch me, leaving white trails down my calves to my feet.  How can I tell her that I have Diabetes, and that a skin wound takes forever to heal?  I was still drowsy, but my old friend Pain would have never let me return to bed. My back was a xylophone of ringing pain, played upon by hellish imps with hammers. Slowly...so slowly did the medication take effect, or the effect that it could, that I was not 'one' moment in agony, the next in paradise, but in an agony that, as it slowly ebbed, merely left me limp as if I had lost my spine, and weary, not tired, not exhausted....but weary; there IS a difference.  I offered up mumbled prayers as the kettle whistle began to sound.  Ah...blessed coffee...and the usual cigarettes.  I had to push my dear dog away.  No thoughts of any importance came to me, and I think I would have actually enjoyed the early, early quiet of morning, had it not been heralded by lightning bolts of pain. On impulse I telephoned a friend of mine who is a long-distance hauler, who would either be at the wheel, or, asleep; no matter, his cell phone would take my message. However, he did answer, and we spoke for several hours, off and on, as he paused to answer his C.B.radio, or to stop at weigh stations. His--too--is a lonely existence, for even though he drives with his brother, at any one time, one or the other is asleep; seldom are they awake at the same time, for fueling or bathroom stops, or for food.  I almost can imagine being so high of the ground, in a massive truck, driving  at 70 m.p.h. at night, alone, and in a darkened cab, lit only by the end of his cigarette, and by the myriad of small blue indicator lights.  And always, the susurrus of the wheels against the road, that makes the head want to nod, and the eyes to close.  So, for a couple of hours, I listen as he talks and sings parts of Country songs.  We are both, and all of us just trying to pass the night.  To the famous poet who once penned that, "...no man is an island", I would have to disagree; we are all little islands, kept ever separate and apart locked in our own bodies, and in our own minds.  In between calls, I made more coffee, smoked more tasteless cigarettes, trying to decide if I was getting hungry, or whether my stomach just hurt.  Nothing appealed to me; besides, the pantry is very low, and I am running out of nearly everything, yet, I only have $31.40 in the checking account, and, after I see my 'Pain Management person' with his $20.66 required co-pay just to be seen, I will have about eleven dollars left until my disability check comes through on the 3rd.  I finally cooked something with brown rice, canned chicken, and peas in it, and it was fair and sufficient to fill an empty need.  At eleven AM or so, I crawled back to bed, and slept off and on until four, this afternoon.  Time for pain medications again, they know no time clock, and then to the bathroom, and out to the kitchen for more coffee.  Funny how I can have coffee and cigarettes right away, but the slightest thought of food sickens me for about four or five hours after I awake. I had the coffee in my cup, and the water boiling, and my little packs of sweetener lined up in a row of five, but suddenly, try as I might, I could not tear the tops off the little packs; I had no strength, while my head pounded like some hollow drum of eye-wincing pain. I had to use the scissors to open the sweetener...first time that happened, I think. I guess I should not be surprised anymore with anything weird that involves my mind or body.  Granted, all fingertips, and, half of both hands are now numb from neuropathy.  As are my 'widdle piddies': my toes, and half of both feet to the ankle. With feet that no longer quite look like feet, but are like a 5 yr. old's drawing of feet; edematous, and misshapen, and discolored.  I know they belong to me, as they are attached to my legs. I try to not, but cannot help but take the occasional peek, I guess, to see if they are still there; they now explode out of my shoes, even to popping the Velcro closures sometimes.  This headache will not go away, nor will the pain scattered all over my vastness.  Parts of my arms feel as if they are frying off my body; it is NOT like flu, not like uber flu, not like anything I have ever experienced.  I want to be feel happy, and, for God's sakes, maybe have a little fun.   I want to laugh; I want to feel light and carefree.  I want to be transported to Mars...anywhere where there is NO pain.  "No pain here!"; 'Pain not allowed!". I want to run.  I want to suddenly check myself from head to toe, and astoundingly feel nothing but wellness, gratefully leaving far behind the pain, the despair, the odd days and nights, the constant and unabated weariness and sluggishness of mind, and torture of the soul.  I want to throw ALL my medicines away, and take the rest of my life off, playing with my dog. But in my own circus from hell, just how many monstrous clowns can fit into that little clown car?  'Pain....Management'.  Two simple words. How can one 'manage' the unmanageable and the unending?  By tossing and tossing more and more drugs at it to appease the ravening beast? For it is never truly appeased, and it never truly goes away. What it does most successfully, is to make me tired and stupid, wanting to do nothing more than eat (if it’s convenient ! ),and to stay abed in that little twilight land of pain and mindlessness. 'PM' is just a business, not a charity, nor a comfort to the soul.  Once, upon arrival for my visit, nearly out of blessed meds, I was not allowed to see the doctor as I had left my wallet at home, and could not--therefore--pony up the $20.66 co-pay. I have never forgotten that sum....$20.66 (which many people carry around on them as pocket change), for they would not bill me, or let me slide until the next visit, or do anything, except arrange for my transportation home, with NO scripts in hand. I died as I asked a woman in the waiting room if I could borrow the money from her, knowing, knowing, knowing that she would look down and past me saying she could not. My pain had made me beg, and at that moment I hated myself in the knowledge that I was now aligned with "Druggies" who will do anything for a fix.  There was no logic, nor promises, nor sympathy, nor...kindness ( ? ); the receptionist avoided eye contact with me, though, she could not have cared less.  Why should she? She was in fine health.  It did not matter: she was the 'Sphinx' who posed to me a riddle I could not answer,'tho I already knew the answer: $20.66. It was a magical number, a trifling sum that risked my running out of opiates, and into withdrawal. Ho-ho, I thought, so this is what it comes down to. $20.66. $20.66.$20.66...it still rings in my head; now...I carry my wallet in a pack I can carry over my shoulder. In it is my debit card: my passport to a five-minute visit, a few 'same answer' questions, and the scripts: three, little pieces of paper, innocuous in themselves, papers that awe me, and repulse me, as they--alone--spare me (almost) from flying past a '10'on the pain scale, into an insanity of pain, the thought of which frightens me, as--unabated--how would it end? With me howling at the moon, or clawing up the turf, hurting as only an animal hurts, without reason, without breezy conceptualization, without mind? Friends, and co-sufferers, I think I would reach for my gun, much as is done to relieve an animal's suffering.  I don't know.  I hope to never know.  All I do know is that for me, $20.66 is the line across the sand that separates a continued--though, lousy--human existence, from a dying, animal's end.  It’s that simple. But...why should I continue thusly?  I fear I am trying to ' preach to the choir'.  No one will read this as it is dreary, and ponderously overlong.  And, to what purpose, what end? To walk my wits at the evening of another day? And why? The 'well' will not care, as they cannot care, and to all of us who suffer from Lupus/Fibromyalgia/and chronic pain...it is already a life many of us lead.  I had hoped to nurture, help, support, and with all my heart's blood, to try to alleviate mutual suffering through exposition.  And...as I have most grievously failed in all regard, today, I apologize, and ask for your kind forgiveness.  And, for your patience and understanding.  (sigh) No matter really what I say, in time....all dead fish smell alike, and are equally repugnant.  As always, your criticisms and comments are most gratefully welcome. I can only wish for you many, many, many 'well' days, and agreeably peaceful, and untroubled nights.  And, the sleep of the innocents.  And...I wish you happiness in full measure.  Please, please, please do take care.  With love to all,

'Zahc'.

 

But…as I recall, friend, ‘durham423’, you had asked about ways to live with, and coping mechanisms following a diagnosis of Lupus.

 

Largely, it will depend on how severe your husband’s Lupus is, or whether it is a flare-up, or, in remission.

He (and you) must recognize his limitations, and what he can do now, and especially—should it advance—his ability to function in the future.

Continued employment may be a problem, and the inevitable stresses imposed by a suddenly decreased income, and how it may affect your standard of living.

Friend, ‘durham423’, while you did not mention children, or pets, friends or neighbors, they may come into conflict should your husband need more rest, naps, or is easily over-stimulated by sound, bright colors, or movement. Does he now require more or less absolute quiet?

Personally, I have found Lupus and Fibromyalgia to be extremely enervating, sapping energy, and inordinately painful.

Either the conditions—themselves—or the medications in place alter the taste and substance of food.

And, that it has become impossible to sleep the entire night through without wakening for bathrooms calls, or that the quality of sleep—itself—is not sufficient, restorative, or, refreshing.

 

I have since discovered that, ‘coping’, and, ‘enduring’, are one in the same.  The medications for pain, and for G.A.D. DO help, but that there is always (on a pain scale of 1-10) pain and distress never lower that about a 5.5

I live quite alone (now that my precious, canine companion, “Daisy”, passed away the end of June), and do rely upon kind neighbors for grocery shopping, errands, and limited company.

Consequently, I spend a number of hours a day at my computer (which a dear friend gave me, for which I am grateful as I have no television).

That does help pass the time.

Having kind and understanding friends is a Godsend; and contemplation and prayer helps to center me.

 

I am also in the application process to be given a, ‘Service Dog’, one that can detect my errant moods, highs or lows in my glucose levels, help me with walking, and, to be ever watchful should anyone attempt to gain unlawful entrance into the house, and/or to harm me.

BTW, this follows a most recent middle-of-the-night, home invasion during which about 98% of my medications were stolen, while I slept!

‘durham423’, actually, your kind patience, support, and understanding will go a long way towards helping your husband to cope; he may now—or in future—be less able to participate in the day-to-day running of the house, the car, the laundry, the bills, the grocery shopping, etc.

 

Friend, ‘durham423’, please feel free to further, ‘PM’, me, or send comments. 

 

And…if you would not mind, ‘durham423’, may I use my response to you as a diary entry? It is my sincere hope that I may have proven to be—at least—of some, small help.

 

I wish you and your husband all fond regards, lessened pain and/or distress, and hope…now, and in the future.

sincerely,

 

‘Zahc’

 

“Within The Secret Gardens Of The Heart, Displayed, Are Intimate, and Tonic, Flower’d Joys Arrayed”

 

 

07/20/13

 

 

Oh, my dearest, kindest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

 

 

I have always loved flowers; pretty ones, unusual ones, striking ones, which range from the deep, dark red of the rose, “Mr. Lincoln”, to the odd, Venus Flytrap.

 

I dote-upon, and can spend hours, and hours poring through nursery catalogues to see their many-splendored offerings.

 

And, as the dreaded heat of summer wears on, and on, I eagerly wait until Fall, when—hopefully—the incinerator that is Florida finally begins to cool, until it is safe to venture outside, knees pads on, attired in ‘work clothes, and trowel in hand; and there with potting soil, cow poo, top soil, and mulch,( and, convenient rolling seat to sit upon), take precious seeds, or seedlings, in hopes of transforming a rather plain, and quite uneventful stretch of weeds, and lawn, to make of it a sheltered paradise.

 

That is the wish I entertain, and have entertained for the past twenty-seven years.

 

There are—however—probably six or seven things that have ever thwarted my most plangent effort.

 

1)           Always, cash has been a problem.

2)           Somewhere in that 27 years, I was altered, made the worse, changed from an energetic thirty-two year old, with more ideas, than sense, into the fifty-eight year old wreck I am—regrettably—today; full of pain, illness, anxiety, agoraphobia, and  oxygen @ three liters, 24/7.  In addition, I seem to be allergic to nearly everything that groweth, or, creepeth upon the ground (think caterpillars, spiders, snakes, and biting flies).

3)           Until I became ill and disabled, I worked full time night shift, so the majority of my ‘off-the-clock’ time was consumed doing errands for my late mother and father, or, just trying to somehow, get enough sleep to make it through the next night.

4)           While some people are admittedly born with a ‘green thumb’, mine is of the most ebon shade of black; plants recoil from my touch.

5)           I once tried to make the outline of a huge, flower plot in the side-yard, using a hose to shape the outline, and the amending the holy Hanna out of the soil, which was mostly sand.  I must have purchased $200.00 worth of various flower seeds  (which looked SO pretty on the packs), only to discover that the ants, and the birds LOVED the seeds, and they proceeded to eat every last, blessed seed.

6)           If you will observe on Google-earth, a map of Florida, and then drop down the west coast, until one reaches the mouth of Tampa Bay (on the map, it looks exactly like some demi-Godling took a bite out of the peninsula), you will find yourself in the vicinity of where I live.  For you gardeners out there, we are talking zone 9; there’s only two more zones, until one runs out of land at Key West, and finds oneself walking out into the water.  What zone 9 means, is that, probably 9/10ths’ of everything listed in the plant catalogues will just shrivel up and die here.

 

I longed for tulips, I dawdled over daffodils, I loved the oriental poppy; all for naught, as none of them would ever survive the heat and the humidity here.

 

How do I know this to be true?  Because one year, I was given (and bought more) a box of dahlia bulbs, which actually grew, and looked astonishingly beautiful; in fact, cars passing by would slow to take in the sight.  Until arrived the relentless heat of July.  I couldn’t get home early enough to keep them watered, and, in a short while, the sun burnt them to the ground, and the bulbs rotted.  Damn.

 

 

I did grow an orange cosmos from seed (until the local bunny rabbits on the loose, ate them to the ground)…think of a very fat, bearded, and bespectacled Elmer Fudd {…kill the wab-bit!}

 

And so, my dearest friends, in 27 years, I have little or nothing to show for it, save for an unquenchable desire to plant AND grow something very, very pretty, and to—somehow—feel a part of the whole ‘creation/seeing new life emerge’ thing.

 

 

This summer is no different, dear friends.  I have my handy, dandy flower catalogue (it is one I’ve always liked) from “Bluestone Perennials”.

 

For those of you who are itinerant gardeners, or those who routinely (and with great success!), plant flowers all the time, I must tell you that this catalogue is wonderful, and can be had for free.  Again, dearest friends, I am not getting a dime for indorsing this company.  But, to get a general look-see, go to:

               www.bluestoneperennials.com

Otherwise, their mailing address, and telephone #  is:

            Bluestone Perennials

            7211 Middle Ridge Rd.

            Madison, Ohio, 44057

            Telephone #: 1-800-852-5243

            Hours of operation: Mon-Fri,

            9 a.m. to 4 p.m. ( E.S.T )

 

There are many reasons why I adore this particular catalogue:

1)           For each genus of plants, they provide two graphs, one, for length of blooming time, and the other, for sun or shade requirements.

2)           Each established ‘seedling’ is about 3” high, giving it a head start over trying to cultivate from seed only.

3)           Their pots are 100% biodegradable

4)           I believe they guarantee their plants to arrive in good condition AND to grow  (with no particular time limit), or they will issue a replacement, or a refund.

5)           Bluestone offers a huge variety of perennials, that—generally—cost about $7.95 each, plus, of course, shipping and handling.

6)           The photographs of the flowers, scrubs, ferns, ground-covers, and trees are gorgeous!

7)           And, for those—like me—likely to step on a rake, therefore bashing in my conk, they offer already planned gardens for shade, for butterflies, for direct sun, and for the newcomer.

I’ve already been poring over, and poring over their catalogue, and I think I have narrowed it down to just three or four perennials to ‘experiment’ with:

 

1)           When money frees up, of course, I think I may get a few “Stella D’Oro” day lilies, as with some protection, they might survive up under the front hedge, where the hedge has gotten spotty.

2)           For the full-sun area, I like the ‘Gaillardia’, Mexican and Indian blanket flowers; I first discovered them—on my way home for work, once—growing in a vacant lot in pure sand!  And with no care, whatsoever.  They love the hot sun, love poor soil, and infrequent watering, and these, I think might look pretty out around the mailbox, where no hose would reach.  In short….MY kind of plant!

 

 

Even though I will now have to have someone to plant them for me, and then put in a soaker hose on a timer out at the pump, to give them a trickle of water, still, I am excited about fixing the yard up, and maybe making it look pretty.

 

And although I don’t go outside very often, I can still see them through the house windows, as they grow, and gently sway in any fit of breeze.

 

And I know that—even obliquely—I will have tried to capture a little bit of glamour, and beauty, and calming effects of such wonderful flowers!

 

 

My dearest friends, and loyal readers, my questions to you are:

1)           Do you garden, at all?

2)           If you have a garden, what plants do you have in it?

3)           What are you favorite plants, and why?

4)           What plants—if any—help you to ‘feel good’?

5)           Where do you get your plants?  From a neighbor? From seed?  From a local ‘home-improvement’ store, in their garden department?  Or, do you buy from catalogues?

6)           Do you ever have cut flower arrangements in your home?  And why?

 

 

 

Please kindly share your thoughts, feelings, and experiences with planting flowers, or flower beds in the comment section, below.

 

 

And, as always, please know that I think of you so very often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles