" Hurting. Hopeless..Helpless..Hollow. "

“  Hurting. Hopeless.  Helpless.  Hollow  “

07/14/12

I

Hurting.  Hopeless.  Helpless. Hollow.

Illness adds to constant pain uncaring,

until the soul cries out past all despairing.

Uncertain of the pills that I must swallow,

while waiting—ever waiting—for some benefit to follow.

II

Wanting.  Won’dring.  Worried.  Waiting

for an antibiotic that will dry my tears;

to heal pneumonia, sinuses and ears.

In hopes that all infections will be soon abating.

III

Sleepless. Sweating. Suff’ring.  ‘Shamed.

Too familiar is that old man’s sweated smell

that makes my clothes and lines stink as well.

I no longer know what should be blamed;

this savaging of pain, untamed?

IV

Silence.  Sleepless.  Saddened.  Stressed;

my dear friend, Joan, lies gravely ill in C.C.U.,

and poor Daisy’s sick as well, and suffers too.

In pain and chills, I hardly have the strength now just to shower, and to get dressed.

I pray—Oh Lord—to heal us all, and grant us rest.

V

Pardon.  Prayers.  Petitioned Peace,

Oh Lord, for dreaded pain, and panic’s end.

Please send your blessed angels to attend;

protect, defend, and ever grant us ease.

Oh please let joy and happiness in full return,

please make all pains and illness cease.

End

And to my very, very dearest, kind friends, and ever, constant, loyal readers, please always know that I love you dearly.

‘Zahc’/Charles

" When There Are No Pills To Take "

“  When There Are No Pills To Take  “

07/12/12

I

When there are no pills to take

though illness adds its agony to constant pain.

When can I—trembling—take my opiates again?

Until the clock agrees, I must endure, and wait.

II

When there are no friends to care.

And I am left alone, afraid;

for all around me seems a masquerade; (1)

my mask—removed—shows no familiar face,

but blackness there.

III

When there are no hopes that last,

for endless pain corrupts both space and time

to negate all future plans sublime;

when medication times become reality at last.

IV

When there are no words to pray

for restful sleep, and end of pain;

to have Your guardian angels descend, remain.

My Savior, fashion words for me to say.

V

When there are no cures in sight,

my pain and illnesses will never go away;

so I, in gratitude, turn to my dearest friends at MDJ,

to care and comfort me both day and night.

End

(1)     ‘Strenuba’, “Masquerade”, MDJunction, 2012.  I urge you, gentle readers, to read, and follow my friend, ‘Strenuba’s most powerful, and compelling poetry; I ever find myself greatly moved by his frank (though, sometimes, brutal) honesty; for there is undeniable truth there, and I find a stark beauty in his work, and a meaning which never loses its sense of power and emotion.

To my very, very special friends, and ever-loyal, constant readers, please, please always know I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" The Irony Of Dreams, And The Disappointment "

“ The Irony Of Dreams, And The Disappointment “

( originally written, July 13, 2008 )

07/10/12

To my very dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers,

Prologue:

I frequently awake to mornings unremarkable in promise, or in gain, or of purpose, depending on the level of pain I almost always awake to; and thus based on those criteria, can chart the progress of my day that may range from hopeful to helpless.

But somehow, this morning seems different, if for no other reason than that it was to agony that dragged me—most unwilling—from the utter ‘unawareness’ that sleep can sometimes confer, up to the ‘surface’, and full-into the kind of pain that paralyzes the will, and almost all bodily movement; I hardly dare to move as this horrendous global pain would destroy all meaningful thought or volition.

Forgive me, dearest friends, for I fully know that you have mental, and/or physical illnesses whose by-product is but a dreary mind cloud, and pain to an extent that makes you cry, and rock in place, and take—really—anything you can to try to limit pain’s onslaught and duration.

You reluctantly give up the bed and any sleep as a cause lost; again the pain has won a pyrrhic victory, for—by now—how little we have to fight with.  You may be up so early, that everyone else in the house is still asleep; you are both reassured by their comfortable snores, yet…you resent that blissful state as unattainable.

You may sit somewhere so that the light will not disturb anyone, and, having taken all the medication you can ( and, sometimes a little more ), push the pets off the sofa so that you can hug a cushion, while rolling yourself into a little ball of purest agony, subconsciously seeking to take up as little space as you can.

And, slowly sip at a still-too-hot mug of coffee, and as the occasional tear runs down your face, you sigh, that kind of sigh that is a prayer, for you have gotten up too early, and, since this looks to be a ‘pain day’, mentally rehearse your schedule, wishing you could just be left alone, instead.

So I will not violate your kind befriending of me by reciting a veritable ‘Chinese Restaurant’s menu, with convenient numbers listing all my pain, distress, or despair; my MDJ  Profile sums it up pretty well; the rest I leave to your imagination.

Even though I love my dear dog Daisy so very, very much…still…it took almost an hour, and several tries to just leave my kitchen chair to attend to her few, and little needs.  I hate to—in effect—neglect her for even that time, as it was she who adopted us twelve years ago, and since, she has been my buddy and my pal.

While rummaging-through a cabinet, looking for a new, lined tablet to do some budgetary work on ( you too know the feeling, when so much of the month is still to come ), when I came across a little, stapled set of notes that I had written 07/13/08, and I was curious as to what compelled that entry, particularly as, four years ago, I had not as yet been diagnosed with Lupus, Fibromyalgia, R.A., and was, if memory serves, two months away from having to have my appendix removed, so, in that regard, I might have been in the pain associated with it.  Oh, and I forgot pneumonia, too.

And so, my very dearest friends, while I stop to rest, recharge, regroup while still so very congested, with your most kind approval, I want to share those now, four year old thoughts with you, for—in matters of the heart—some things never change…do they?

“ The Irony Of Dreams, And The Disappointment “

I just awoke from a long, and pleasant dream I knew to be false; yet I encouraged it to last as long as it could last until physical necessity forced me awake and fully conscious.

First, my mother and father were still alive, happy, and healthy in ways that had eliminated all chance of illness or despair.

That we were exceedingly well-off was apparent from the rugs, to the fine furnishings, to the art hanging in rows against the wall, which was a most pleasing blue.

My father had come down to my room to bring the mail, and a rare liqueur he wanted me to try; I found it to be in all ways most satisfying, as it surrounded me with a golden warmth, but without any of the base qualities that liqueur sometimes seems to have.

In the mail were packages of small, but exquisitely crafted cigarettes, and, upon my sampling them, found them to be satisfactory as well.

At the top of the walls was an etched and marked tray ceiling, from which depended in scalloped, arcing lines, hundreds, and hundreds of puppets, from ‘Pierrot’, to ‘William Tell’, from childish, bucolic efforts to those with more edge, to some as frightening as to have been the product of utter nightmare.

At the end of this enormous room—mounted on the wall—was at least an eight-foot wide, flat, television screen; this passingly displayed the news, but as the volume was off, it was ignored.

None of us had health problems, and I reveled in every second I spent with my mom and dad.

And, although it was a dream, on some abstract or visceral level, I knew that something was wrong.  And that my mother and father were dead. Still, even with an uncertain anxiety, I chose the illusion, quite content to stay there.

But in time, everything must die; dreams must die by fading before an unwelcome reality.  I did my best—I believe—to hold on to various elements as they faded away, slipping-through my mind’s hands, each element becoming irretrievably lost.

I fought most hard about my father and mother, losing ground to their presence, then their awareness, then their shadows, until the echoes of even quantum particles were forcibly taken from me.  I believed I would have gladly given my life at the time to remain there; to hear my parent’s happy laughter, and their kind exchanges, to have them near me.  Sometimes, it seems, the simulacrum of an object would—by taking the ascendant—become more ‘real’ than  the object itself.

Suddenly I was wide awake as the dirty tide of unwanted reality coursed over me.  And, perhaps it was not strange that there was a deep regret that surpassed all other regrets.

What had waked me up to full awareness, was the very real need to get up to the bathroom.  It then struck me with a kind of irony ( perhaps known only to adults ), that—quite against my will—I had been forced, cast out, from but an example of Eden, by nature of having a full bladder.

End

I thank you for your most kind, and understanding patience, and loyal readership, my dearest friends.  Please always know that you ever occupy a large place within my heart.

‘Zahc’/Charles

" It's Two:three-four a.m., And I Could Use..."

“ It’s Two: three-four a.m., And I Could Use…”

( based upon too-many a true story )

As always, to my most wonderfully kind, enduring friends, and so important, ever loyal readers,

Prologue

How many times have you been prescribed a medication, only to find it has some terrible, disrupting side-effect, that—subsequently requires the ordering of a different medication, which also may evidence untoward side-effects as well; and so, thus begins the ever-increasing spiral of medications to help medications, to help medications?

And, before long, that single, original prescription blossoms into a home-accumulated micro-pharmacy based one just one medication   Too soon, all of them are needed in the prevention, stabilization, and amelioration of a physical complaint that—while valid ( I will not argue efficacy ), it would, nevertheless show how these ‘train car’ prescriptions begin to affect each other, making some work too efficiently, and others, not nearly enough.

And, my dearest, one even casual look at my MDJ profile will show why I am on so many medications, any one of which might suddenly react abnormally; and with the slight assistance I receive for their increasing cost, sometimes with the help, of course of my Primary, or pharmacist, every so often, an overall review of all prescriptions must be made to see what I can safely do without.

Many of these former scripts have been dropped from my pharmacy plan, part D, wherein confusion is the watchword of the hour.  Why, for example, Ambien 10 mgs, CR is no longer covered, but that Ambien 10 mgs tabs still are.

From time to time, other, considered ‘necessary’ medications get dropped for no apparent reason.  And to continue those, I now have to pay ‘full price’, or pay the still exorbitant ‘discounted price.

Some time ago, when my Seroquel could only be had in ‘brand’, it cost $870.00 a month!  Although it has since become generic, I of course I now pay less, but the Klonopin still weighs-in at nearly $50.00 a month, and other medications are as nearly high.

Even with the needed reduction of required medications I must take, I would roughly estimate my current medication bill to exceed $1,900.00 a month.  Who can afford that?  And since these meds have multiple doses throughout the day, each considered of vital necessity, please tell me, dearest friends, where does the ‘winnowing’ begin?

At one time, I was taking over twenty-six, different medications a day.  With more to come.  This could not be allowed to occur

Its funny, I suppose—when looking back---that that I cannot afford or take the medications specific to my illness: the Lyrica, for fibromyalgia caused a pronounced swelling in my legs, until I could barely walk; the Plaquinal, for R.A., lists potential blindness among its most dire side-effects.

And so, to many of my physical, or mental complaints must be treated ‘palliatively’, instead of directly.

However, with the help of our Creator, and my Primary, I have been able to reduce that ‘merry-go-‘round’ collection of bottles and bottles of pills and tablets, to—I hope—a more manageable amount, for, too many times, a huge, handful of pills consisted of my supper, as I had NO taste for food.

So I would urge you, dearest friends, to be diligent and cautious, but—when able—to decrease the amount of uncontrolled spiraling that seems, inevitably, to occur over time, and with the addition of treatment for ‘new’ complaints.

I interrupt my planned topic to speak of this with you, for, as in my case, in trying to load my medications for the week, I would—invariably—make grave mistakes, by inadvertently doubling the doses, or, forgetting where in the line of medications that ranged before me like silent soldiers I happened to be.

My ‘hoped-for’ goal, my ever dearest friends, is to help you with your medications…a most important adjunct in the process of your treatment and care.

For you know—I hope—by now—that your safety and health and wellbeing are ever my concern; and, as this weekend begins, I ever wish for you no pain, or distress, but—rather, full-surrounded by those ( myself included ! ) who love you dearly.

With any troubles you may have flown far away.

And always…watched over, kept safe, and happy by the constant ministering of purest angels.

I

“ It’s two: three-four a.m., and I could use a friend

to—perhaps—sit quiet with me here

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

To 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

that 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’ve 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 you keeping vigil with me, until the accumulated medications took 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

And, please, please dear gentle friends, and ever, loyal readers that I love you dearly !

‘Zahc’/Charles

" 'Independence Day'...For Some, When It Should Be For All "

“ ‘Independence Day’…For Some, When It Should Be For All “

07/04/12

To my wonderfully kind, and caring friends, and ever most respected loyal readers,

In America—today, my dearest friends, today is ‘Independence Day’, or as it is more casually known: ‘the 4^th of July’.  For a certain number of us, today marks yet another cessation of our daily labors; families get together, the day is full of implied excitement.

For many, today will be remarked by a grand picnic, or grilling out; hotdogs, and hamburgers are the rule, with tons of potato salad, macaroni salad, baked beans, and, maybe pie (with, or without ice-cream, as the dessert of choice ).

The convenience stores will suffer a run on ice, which is dumped into Styrofoam coolers.  Or large tubs will display their icy contents of sodas and beer, all much-needed to quench one’s constant thirst in trying to fight off the heat.

Their may issue music from a million sources, and voices seem a little louder; all this is a natural consequence of a holiday that has pure and undiluted noise as its base. For today—at least—everything seems to be louder, more colorful, more intense in its goal of merry-making, and celebration.

There’ll be picnics by the pool ( for those who have them ), or trips planned to the beach ( for those who don’t ), and people, coolers, umbrellas, boom boxes, swim suits of every type, and towels of every color laid upon the sand; There’s so much noise that even the sound of waves, or the errant cries of gulls ( swooping low, for pieces of neglected rolls ) pale against this background din.

A few, die-hard partiers thrash their way out in the water as far as they can safely go, while elsewhere, sharp-eyed moms divide their attention from trying to work on a tan, to watching, most carefully, their young children, as the splash-about at surf’s edge, playing in the sand, or digging up shells.

And for those who—perhaps—have not quite had their fill, half a dozen paint-scratched concession trucks blare their own songs to attract patrons armed with sticky, wet change to pay for ices, colas, or hotdogs; and, even though few, if any of these hawkers would truly pass a Health Department test for cleanliness or safety, still, others swear by these mishandled Nathan’s, or Soubrette’s.  It has to be the dirty water that makes them taste—somehow—better.

There is an anxious excitement in the air, as the long and languid afternoon moves into twilight as all awaits the splendid shows of fireworks.

An anticipation of even louder noises, and brilliant explosions of light.  For even with the heat and muggy air, the tiny, endless tents of fireworks that for the past week have sprung-up along or highways like dandelion puff balls, have been selling extremely well, with bottle rockets, Black Cats, M-80’s ( for the bold ), are carted home, with sparklers for the little ones.

A little later one, as if on signal, all our tiny hopes are lit, and sent aloft into the sky, to burn, and whistle, and ‘ka-pow’, with a collected riot of lights and noise that makes all the dogs bark in the neighborhood, and, in watching this display, there are polite and wondrous exchanges by neighbors who—perhaps—have not spoken in months.

Inside the houses, are those who merely watch staged shows on TeeVee, while armed with bowls of chips and dips, and plenty to wash it down with.  And there they pass the evening away, in the relative coolness of their homes; they change channels to watch fireworks in Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, and elsewhere, listening to their bands and concerts.

And while these ‘super productions’ cast wide their raucous spectrum over plasma TeeVee, somehow, something indefinable has been lost, either by distance, or, lack of direct participation.  There are several noticeable degrees of somehow ‘falseness’ there, for, despite the over-the-top would-be grandeur, it is, nonetheless, a faded, and failed replica;

Although, tomorrow, they will among the more vociferous complainers when they see all the firework sticks and wrappers in their yard, and in the street.

The more genuine experiences requires several small burn marks on the hands and arms; and the ‘morning after wheeze’ from having stayed out too late, inhaling stagnant air that irritated the lung, and burned the eyes with the lingering smell of sulphureted smoke, that gathers all about the cars, and people rushing here and there.

For not a few, the day is evidenced by the firing of pistol, rifle-fire into the air, with no apparent notion that the bullets hurled Heavenward would ever fall back to earth again.

This glorious night lasts large and long, until, by small, and small, to medium, to medium, to large pauses indicate that this year’s supply of fireworks has ended, still…there will be the odd neighbor, down the street, who will continue to set off rockets until it is quite late, when, many of the revelers have given up, and gone to bed.

For after all, for so many, tomorrow is but another work day, made entirely weird that there’s now only two days left until the natural weekend.

Around the country, arguments erupt; the ‘snooze buttons’ on the clock receive repeated hits; everyone is tired, and NO ONE wants to have to go to school or work.  Hasty showers are taken.  While tons of coffees are scalding, swallowed without care.  Oh God, where are the breath mints? I thought I left them in the car?  The skin still smells of gunpowder, as do the bed linens.

In many ways, we celebrate our ‘Independence’ with as much heedless care as we do our New Year’s.

I know the Country’s collective heads hurt with resounding migraines; but, should you have even just a spare moment, I would ask for your kind consideration, please.  When you earlier enjoyed your picnic, having fun with your family and friends, did you  perhaps give one thought about an older, next-door neighbor who can no longer ‘get out’ as easily as you?  Did you wonder for one second if they had food to celebrate with?  Or, even if they had food?

On your way into a job that frankly you despise, did you happen to pass a hospital, whose residents, living or dying, were not as apt to celebrate the holiday as did you?  Did you even stop to share with anyone your rapturous gladness to be free?  With anyone?  A hotdog freely shared might have been someone’s only caloric intake for the day.

For even now, across the globe, and you should know of them as you watch your nightly TeeVee shows, where tyranny exists to such a foul and putrid extent, where families huddle amid garbage dumps to escape being rounded up, separated, molested, or simply killed.  To witness their wives and children tortured even as the men are tortured, beaten, assaulted, starved into blind submission, or sold into slavery.

Their children are not so different from ours, are they?  How different is their love?  How differently do they cry at night, in constant fear, and cling to their mothers and fathers who cannot help them, or protect them.

Even we, who think ourselves different, kinder, better, have a soaring domestic violence rate unsurpassed by any other so-called 1^st World Nation.  Not to mention drug use, and abuse; crimes of utter bestiality, the same minds refused to consider, though they did call it the ‘Holocaust’….

We do not care; we do not want to be bothered.  We do not want to know.  We do not even want to be aware…because we have been made dull, and unresponsive.  We idly allow a government of broom-pushers, and store clerks to foregather in the light of purest evil, greed, certainly.  But evil, incontestably, down past the very depths, past the very ‘Tartarus’ of Hell.  How else can a Stalin ‘liquidate’ millions, and millions of his own people?  It is that very face of pure and undistilled evil that we shun.

We have lost our guiding Faith.  We have lost ‘our’ promised land.  We have lost our ability to love, and to care, and to get involved, and to be heard.  As long as our base needs can be met.  And, for many of us—admittedly—who are too ill, too weak, and too afraid, the rigor of even daily living is a balance upon a pin.  And our mere survival is hard.

But, tonight, please…let us hold that sparkler’s light more close to our hearts.  To be ever thankful that we are Americans, and that this—with all its problems, is still America.  For I most firmly believe that the goodness that is inside all of us can still be reached.

And that ‘Independence Day’ was won for us by those who most nobly still give up their very lives.  Would you do it?  Could you do it?  For, surely it is they who will keep our great grandchildren out of slavery in our own Country.

Tonight, amid the wild celebrations, and the noise and din, I urge you please, please, please to keep this day within you hearts.  And, imagine—for a moment, if you but will—that the gaudily-colored firework, might—in another situation—be a mortar round, or that the various pops and fizzles of exploding firecrackers be, instead, automatic gunfire trained upon an innocent, civilian populace.

I thank you, and am so very grateful to you, and that I love you with all my heart.

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Sometimes, When Tired Agoraphobes Would Dream To Roam"

“ Sometimes, When Tired Agoraphobes Would Dream To Roam “

07/02/12

To my very, very dearest friends, supportive, and ever kind, and to the most loyal, caring readers…a gentle, sad, though accurate lament,

I

Sometimes, when tired agoraphobes would dream to roam,

to lift one’s eyes beyond the front door’s edge,

or, peering ever past the curtains of a window ledge,

to try to think of being somewhere besides home.

II

His traveling thoughts, would not for one second hesitate

To throw things willy-nilly in a bag or two

In rushing to an unknown destination, new,

except to seek a long-time friend, in another State.

III

To fly into their older arms to be reclaimed;

for who would but laugh at now greying hair

that once—perhaps—seemed thick and fair.

And of the faces lined with time, no one need be ashamed.

IV

To find that years of passing time had disappeared,

Though old stories now seem fresh and new;

While they pause—perhaps—to share a drink or two

and, laughing, find nothing to be feared.

V

Why does that sudden sight reflect regret,

For in those passing decades, other lives were found, and other friends.

And that subsequent feeling of discomfort grows, and sends

The humbled Agoraphobe into a frightening realization, and yet,

VI

He had—perhaps—thrown measured caution all away,

While thinking,” Was I stupid, reckless, wanting, needing,

And so, confused, and lost, and almost pleading?”

“ How can I make up my goodbyes, all fond intentions—now in shards—and stay?”

VII

The journey back is but as silent as a sigh.

The now-encroaching masses causes pain

There’s too much noise and too much wind,

“I must get safely home, for this resounding anxiety demands returning hours fly.

VIII

Upon arriving home, the house—thank God still seems unchanged,

Except, for the astute Agoraphobe, a clouded layer of dust.

No matter, for the all-consuming quiet is a must,

And, never will such a headlong flight be arranged.

IX

Though then rooms look somewhat greyer, everything still seems the same.

There’s medicine, and comfort here,

And to the true Agoraphobe these things provide some cheer.

Content—briefly—to only see beyond the curtain, or the door, and there…ever most content to there remain.

End

Please always know I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles