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| THIS IS HOW SUNDAY FELT! |
Monday, August 31, 2015
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Dingbatter or Ditdot?
Traveling to Sealevel on a regular basis has given me a new perspective on driving a two-lane road, locals, speed limits and patience while driving behind a dingbatter or a ditdot. I know one of them came to stay and one of them came to visit but I am not sure which it is so I am gonna say that I was behind one of them this week. Know how I know? I followed the darn car for 30 or so miles at an average speed of 45 miles an hour. That's right! Oh, they sped up a bit on the straight parts, then slowed, then sped up to a blazing 50 miles per hour. I have already learned from the staff of the facility my husband occupies at the moment that brown cop cars are not to be feared, highway patrol are a different matter entirely so I have learned to move along with the local traffic doing a facsimile of the multiple changes of speed limits. This particular day I was in a hurry. Imagine that! I watched as the person driving the vehicle controlling my world looked from left to right enjoying the scenery, no doubt. The scenery is magnificent. But, life goes on down east and there are people working, traveling to and fro. It was not Sunday. I practiced many of my sayings, breathing techniques, que sera, sera type thinking for seconds at a time and spent the remainder of the time wishing I had a cattle catcher on the front of my vehicle which I would use to gently push them off into the swampy but not deadly shoulder of the road. When we at last came to the turn for Sealevel they proved my assumption that they were just passing through by following the road that leads to the Cedar Island Ferry as I made the right that leads to Pruett Rehab/Nursing home. They were, I am certain, relaxed as they motored on to the ferry. I was contemplating a crime or two and then muttering a prayer and then contemplating a crime or two. Split-personality caught between the grips of the demon of road rage and the angel of "how important is it?".
My other travel story involved a local. I know it did because the vehicle in front of me was marked with a business name I kinda know from traveling Arendell St. It was a van. There was traffic so I was building a case against whomever was in front of the van causing the van to tap on the brakes at frequent intervals then drive a bit then tap on the brakes. The brake lights flashed each time. I realized in a sharp turn that no car was in front of this van to necessitate the brake, drive, break pattern. Any allowances I had made for that possibility flew out the closed window of my car. The red brake lights flashing on then off began to have a sound to them resembling a scream, quiet, scream impact in my head. I have just enough obsessive compulsive in me to find a random yet predictable pattern of red, blinking brake lights excrutiating. The cells in my body began to flash, subside, flash, subside. I was trapped behind a nightmare that remained before my eyes all the way into town and most of the way to my destination before turning. By the time the van turned it did not matter anymore. I saw it as destiny, kismet, some unidentifiable karmic payback. Perhaps the van and the driver manipulating the brakes were part of a plan to divert my mind, teach me that things can indeed get worse. My next stop was my shrink's office. Thank goodness for ADHD. I forgot about the van within a quarter of a mile. I remembered it again when I wrote about the slow as cold molasses driver not from these parts.
Two lane roads and the nostalgia for the good old days. Phooey! One of my uncles drove like the devil was on his tail, passed cars when there was no possible way for us to avoid a head-on collision with an on-coming car and refused to stop for anyone to go to the bathroom until their teeth were floating in their own...well...you get the picture. He eventually died instantly in a car wreck that was not his fault. He and all those with him had been spared that fate over and over again throughout the years. I have often wondered what thoughts passed through the minds of the passengers of the on-coming cars when an apparently insane driver of a station wagon began to pass a car with no apparent concern for the lives of anyone. I wonder if they hit a warp zone or were inexplicably lifted above my uncle's car thereby avoiding the inevitable head-on collision. It goes without saying that many a good Southern Baptist reverted to their former pagan state screaming expletives as we careened by.
So, my son has asked me to drive carefully on the road to Sealevel and I have complied. I have not been calm, serene or mature about it. Most of the time circumstances conspired to force me into careful driving. I have many more times to drive that stretch of highway. The thought has come to me that leaving thirty minutes early might make a difference. Such a simple choice might allow me to drift lazily behind the tourist or ignore the brake lights flickering on the vehicle in front of me. Or I could pull over and let the flickering creature drive far ahead of me. I don't know. Maybe driving a two-lane road is a little like living close to your neighbors. Maybe it is personable, real, communal in a way that super highways have taken away in many areas. Maybe the two-lane road is the neighbor's lawnmower at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning or the sweetness of homes sitting close by the road, laundry hanging out, trees and waterways close by the side of the road. Maybe I should just get a grip, go with the flow, enjoy the pace and be happy for the humanness a two-lane road encourages.
I stopped for gas at a station in the junction in the middle of nowhere important to very few people. A fisherman gassed his old truck, his shirt unbuttoned, his belly hanging out a bit, pair of jeans and a pair of waders on as he gassed his truck. He paid me no mind. People from down east have the eerie ability to see right through you, past you in a way that makes me look down at myself to see if I am visible. It is not the first time I have encountered it. Usually the women will speak. A bit. Just throw out a hi or a "that'll be a dollar and twenty-nine cents". But I have come to find them loyal, strong, given to taking great care of what they have accepted or who they have accepted. It is difficult to ignore me once I put my mind to the task of engaging you. But I know a junk yard dog when I meet one and I give them space, honor their privacy, finish my task and move on.
Tomorrow I go to Sealevel. It will be Sunday. I will amble down that way (figuratively speaking) with no agenda other than getting Robert into a wheelchair and going out to sit by the water for a spell. When I leave I will amble back towards home with no need for speed and no bone to pick. I will go after church.
There is an old feller who sits outside the facility in his wheelchair. His wheelchair faces the highway. He has no legs. He never fails to greet me cheerfully, compliment my attire or agree that it is indeed a great day. He waves at cars coming and going. As far as I can tell he sits there all day watching the goings on around him. He snoozes in the sun, awakens as I approach, grins and we speak our parts. I am going to ask him his name next time I see him. I will tell y'all his name next time I write.
This darn PTSD gets to me at times. I am sitting at my laptop writing and I hear a car door close. My nerves tense up, my awareness goes on alert, I listen and wait for any sound that will let me off the hook. There is no reason for anyone to be coming here is what I think to myself and I am right. No one comes. Probably the neighbors. The moment passes. There was a time that noise would have sent me to find my dagger and sit in my living room quiet as a mouse for a awhile. "They" never show up. It is just that I often feel that "they" might some day. I have come a long way with letting that fear go. The moment passed in the time it took me to write this paragraph. The dagger remains in the drawer and I feel o.k. No one comes this way. The hatred I use to feel towards whomever created this place in me is gone. I accept responsibility today for my life. The dagger is not because I hate. It is because, on occasion, I fear.
Well, that is the end of the show. The curtain is coming down. I am going to stretch out on the sofa, put on a dull t.v. show and go to sleep. Yes, I do have a bed. And?
My other travel story involved a local. I know it did because the vehicle in front of me was marked with a business name I kinda know from traveling Arendell St. It was a van. There was traffic so I was building a case against whomever was in front of the van causing the van to tap on the brakes at frequent intervals then drive a bit then tap on the brakes. The brake lights flashed each time. I realized in a sharp turn that no car was in front of this van to necessitate the brake, drive, break pattern. Any allowances I had made for that possibility flew out the closed window of my car. The red brake lights flashing on then off began to have a sound to them resembling a scream, quiet, scream impact in my head. I have just enough obsessive compulsive in me to find a random yet predictable pattern of red, blinking brake lights excrutiating. The cells in my body began to flash, subside, flash, subside. I was trapped behind a nightmare that remained before my eyes all the way into town and most of the way to my destination before turning. By the time the van turned it did not matter anymore. I saw it as destiny, kismet, some unidentifiable karmic payback. Perhaps the van and the driver manipulating the brakes were part of a plan to divert my mind, teach me that things can indeed get worse. My next stop was my shrink's office. Thank goodness for ADHD. I forgot about the van within a quarter of a mile. I remembered it again when I wrote about the slow as cold molasses driver not from these parts.
Two lane roads and the nostalgia for the good old days. Phooey! One of my uncles drove like the devil was on his tail, passed cars when there was no possible way for us to avoid a head-on collision with an on-coming car and refused to stop for anyone to go to the bathroom until their teeth were floating in their own...well...you get the picture. He eventually died instantly in a car wreck that was not his fault. He and all those with him had been spared that fate over and over again throughout the years. I have often wondered what thoughts passed through the minds of the passengers of the on-coming cars when an apparently insane driver of a station wagon began to pass a car with no apparent concern for the lives of anyone. I wonder if they hit a warp zone or were inexplicably lifted above my uncle's car thereby avoiding the inevitable head-on collision. It goes without saying that many a good Southern Baptist reverted to their former pagan state screaming expletives as we careened by.
So, my son has asked me to drive carefully on the road to Sealevel and I have complied. I have not been calm, serene or mature about it. Most of the time circumstances conspired to force me into careful driving. I have many more times to drive that stretch of highway. The thought has come to me that leaving thirty minutes early might make a difference. Such a simple choice might allow me to drift lazily behind the tourist or ignore the brake lights flickering on the vehicle in front of me. Or I could pull over and let the flickering creature drive far ahead of me. I don't know. Maybe driving a two-lane road is a little like living close to your neighbors. Maybe it is personable, real, communal in a way that super highways have taken away in many areas. Maybe the two-lane road is the neighbor's lawnmower at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning or the sweetness of homes sitting close by the road, laundry hanging out, trees and waterways close by the side of the road. Maybe I should just get a grip, go with the flow, enjoy the pace and be happy for the humanness a two-lane road encourages.
I stopped for gas at a station in the junction in the middle of nowhere important to very few people. A fisherman gassed his old truck, his shirt unbuttoned, his belly hanging out a bit, pair of jeans and a pair of waders on as he gassed his truck. He paid me no mind. People from down east have the eerie ability to see right through you, past you in a way that makes me look down at myself to see if I am visible. It is not the first time I have encountered it. Usually the women will speak. A bit. Just throw out a hi or a "that'll be a dollar and twenty-nine cents". But I have come to find them loyal, strong, given to taking great care of what they have accepted or who they have accepted. It is difficult to ignore me once I put my mind to the task of engaging you. But I know a junk yard dog when I meet one and I give them space, honor their privacy, finish my task and move on.
Tomorrow I go to Sealevel. It will be Sunday. I will amble down that way (figuratively speaking) with no agenda other than getting Robert into a wheelchair and going out to sit by the water for a spell. When I leave I will amble back towards home with no need for speed and no bone to pick. I will go after church.
There is an old feller who sits outside the facility in his wheelchair. His wheelchair faces the highway. He has no legs. He never fails to greet me cheerfully, compliment my attire or agree that it is indeed a great day. He waves at cars coming and going. As far as I can tell he sits there all day watching the goings on around him. He snoozes in the sun, awakens as I approach, grins and we speak our parts. I am going to ask him his name next time I see him. I will tell y'all his name next time I write.
This darn PTSD gets to me at times. I am sitting at my laptop writing and I hear a car door close. My nerves tense up, my awareness goes on alert, I listen and wait for any sound that will let me off the hook. There is no reason for anyone to be coming here is what I think to myself and I am right. No one comes. Probably the neighbors. The moment passes. There was a time that noise would have sent me to find my dagger and sit in my living room quiet as a mouse for a awhile. "They" never show up. It is just that I often feel that "they" might some day. I have come a long way with letting that fear go. The moment passed in the time it took me to write this paragraph. The dagger remains in the drawer and I feel o.k. No one comes this way. The hatred I use to feel towards whomever created this place in me is gone. I accept responsibility today for my life. The dagger is not because I hate. It is because, on occasion, I fear.
Well, that is the end of the show. The curtain is coming down. I am going to stretch out on the sofa, put on a dull t.v. show and go to sleep. Yes, I do have a bed. And?
Thursday, August 27, 2015
I'm Not Gonna Miss You (From Glen Campbell's 'I'll Be Me')
No Robert does not have Alzheimer's or not that they have said but he already has something going on that sounds like this song Glen Campbell wrote. So many people know the feeling of being with someone who is slowly not with you. I cannot say it better nor would I try. Thank you, Glen Campbell!
My heart cries!
A Couple of Days!
Since retiring week-ends and Mondays and Fridays all run together. Every day has the potential of a week-end or a work day. It is a Monday today and I feel Monday.
Oops! It is Tuesday. Monday went so fast it caught up with Tuesday. Weird thing about my life these days! I was back at the emergency room again tonight but with another family member. It is a little after 3 a.m. I have been home about 15 minutes. Later in the morning I will drive almost the exact distance going in the opposite direction to take clothes and such to my husband who is now in a rehab/nursing home. The drive is two lane most of the way and will take me far "down east", as we say in these parts. The drive is beautiful and long in minutes simply because it is two lane and the population in that area has grown over the years. Well, it has grown most of the way. I will be going to one of the jumping off points...meaning if I kept going I would need the means to cross the "pond" to the other side of the world cause our land done run out!
The cats are scrapping, the litter needs cleaning, bags need packing, sleep needs sleeping. "Honey, I'm home!" No answer. I experience a mixture of angst, relief, exhaustion and curiosity. With the past five weeks for comparison I have no idea what may transpire tomorrow. O.K. I agree that all of us could say the same with all confidence. I will rephrase. The opportunity for the day to develop along the lines of a Salvador Dali daydream are significant. Truth to tell, I am well suited for the journey. Personally I will be pleased when the wind changes direction. Or will I?
"Life is just a chair of bowlies" is a quote of Mary Engelbreit that I love. My chair is crammed full of bowlies.
Oops! It is Tuesday. Monday went so fast it caught up with Tuesday. Weird thing about my life these days! I was back at the emergency room again tonight but with another family member. It is a little after 3 a.m. I have been home about 15 minutes. Later in the morning I will drive almost the exact distance going in the opposite direction to take clothes and such to my husband who is now in a rehab/nursing home. The drive is two lane most of the way and will take me far "down east", as we say in these parts. The drive is beautiful and long in minutes simply because it is two lane and the population in that area has grown over the years. Well, it has grown most of the way. I will be going to one of the jumping off points...meaning if I kept going I would need the means to cross the "pond" to the other side of the world cause our land done run out!
The cats are scrapping, the litter needs cleaning, bags need packing, sleep needs sleeping. "Honey, I'm home!" No answer. I experience a mixture of angst, relief, exhaustion and curiosity. With the past five weeks for comparison I have no idea what may transpire tomorrow. O.K. I agree that all of us could say the same with all confidence. I will rephrase. The opportunity for the day to develop along the lines of a Salvador Dali daydream are significant. Truth to tell, I am well suited for the journey. Personally I will be pleased when the wind changes direction. Or will I?
"Life is just a chair of bowlies" is a quote of Mary Engelbreit that I love. My chair is crammed full of bowlies.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
I Don't Even Want To Talk About It!
The past five weeks or so have been difficult. Difficult in ways I have not experienced. Difficult in ways that are redefining me. Difficult in ways that have frightened my husband and myself. Just for now, I don't want to talk about it!
I drove over the high-rise bridge, spanning a glistening waterway on my way towards the island. I did not see the ocean ahead or the waterway below. This is alarming in retrospect.
I slept about 3 hours last night. Maybe. My mind has wandered off searching through deep woods and dense foliage for the key to a mysterious kingdom. My girlfriend of many years lost her husband last month. Her mind is searching also. We discuss the process as we share our stories of recent events.
Last night and part of today I played with a frisky dog of size. He insisted I grab the ball caught in his mouth, covered in slobber, tease him for a moment and throw it a few feet away. Within seconds he is back, tail wagging, eyes wide with anticipation, tonguing that plastic ball daring me to try to take it from him. I manage to grab it after a few tries, toss it again and he is back and so on and so on. It is great fun.
Car Kitty...now known as Boots lives in the house where I am staying. Between the dog and the precocious, wonderful, persnickety cat I am fully happy and loved.
I stand on the watchtower. For a moment I avert my eyes, turn to look at the beauty of the lands behind me drinking in their beauty, renewing my spirit. I turn to take my position. I watch for the coming darkness, I gird myself about with the spiritual armour I have learned defends so faithfully. I plant my feet, take up my sword and my shield and attend to my position, watching, per the orders of My King, for the coming darkness. I was born to stand watch. I was born to protect and serve.
A friend had her baby this week. What a beauty of a baby! She borders on perfection except for that little cone shaped head. It will soon shape itself to her beautiful face but it serves now as a whimsical contrast to her flawlessness. It makes her more beguiling, charming, human. She is brand new, knows nothing of symmetry, cares not a bit if her pretty little head is in a cone shape as she begins her life. Cuddled securely in a blanket, held in the arms of her mom she rules her small domain.
I am seized with a compulsion to run. Peace! Be still!
I drove over the high-rise bridge, spanning a glistening waterway on my way towards the island. I did not see the ocean ahead or the waterway below. This is alarming in retrospect.
I slept about 3 hours last night. Maybe. My mind has wandered off searching through deep woods and dense foliage for the key to a mysterious kingdom. My girlfriend of many years lost her husband last month. Her mind is searching also. We discuss the process as we share our stories of recent events.
Last night and part of today I played with a frisky dog of size. He insisted I grab the ball caught in his mouth, covered in slobber, tease him for a moment and throw it a few feet away. Within seconds he is back, tail wagging, eyes wide with anticipation, tonguing that plastic ball daring me to try to take it from him. I manage to grab it after a few tries, toss it again and he is back and so on and so on. It is great fun.
Car Kitty...now known as Boots lives in the house where I am staying. Between the dog and the precocious, wonderful, persnickety cat I am fully happy and loved.
I stand on the watchtower. For a moment I avert my eyes, turn to look at the beauty of the lands behind me drinking in their beauty, renewing my spirit. I turn to take my position. I watch for the coming darkness, I gird myself about with the spiritual armour I have learned defends so faithfully. I plant my feet, take up my sword and my shield and attend to my position, watching, per the orders of My King, for the coming darkness. I was born to stand watch. I was born to protect and serve.
A friend had her baby this week. What a beauty of a baby! She borders on perfection except for that little cone shaped head. It will soon shape itself to her beautiful face but it serves now as a whimsical contrast to her flawlessness. It makes her more beguiling, charming, human. She is brand new, knows nothing of symmetry, cares not a bit if her pretty little head is in a cone shape as she begins her life. Cuddled securely in a blanket, held in the arms of her mom she rules her small domain.
I am seized with a compulsion to run. Peace! Be still!
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Nevermind My Mind! Scratch That Book! Reset The GPS, Y'All!
If you follow my posts then you believe my husband has Parkinson's. I told you he had Parkinson's. It was a given except that there are no givens in this life. But, if not that then what? I read the Mayo Clinic site regarding Parkinson's. I began wrapping my mind around that diagnosis. The road ahead was named if not yet mapped. An appointment with a neurologist in a nearby town was upcoming. I knew, just knew for sure (arrogance is never far from me) that I would wheel my husband in, the neurologist would do the neurological thing and the road ahead would be named and mapped. Remember? I was going to write a book titled, "Parkinson's Sucks"? I believe that premise is secure though I will not be writing the book. Kudos to any of you who believe I would have written the book, You are a testament to the power of positive thinking. But, I digress.
We drive the thirty plus miles to see the male neurologist who was, by several accounts, going to be the cat's meow of neurologist's. I, at least, was excited. My husband, in pain and deep into the pain medication plus never one for excitement, simply wanted to get it over with and crawl in a hole.
I, according to a professional, am given to occasional histrionics which means, in plain language, no moment is a dull moment with me. Every fire is a five alarm fire and every potential for seeing "the professional" means success is just around the corner. The description I gave is an example of histrionics. I was just histrionic about histrionics. Oh my! Well, ADHD and histrionics not withstanding we arrive at the office of the neurologist, sign in and the rules of engagement change immediately. We are not going to be seen by the miracle worker, the highly recommended sure thing guy. We are seeing a woman neurologist whom no one mentioned at all. I stay quiet. My husband hasn't a clue. He is hoping that I do not jam his foot into the doorway of the room we are entering. He is hostage to me as I push him along in the office wheelchair. He is hostage to me all the time now. I guess most folks would say I am hostage to his inability to walk or think well. Every story has two sides. My husband has always been as immune to being taken hostage as anyone I have known and now he is at the mercy of my care-taking. He appreciates it but it is an unnatural alliance for us. I have managed to chase another squirrel...
The woman neurologist appears in the doorway of our room. She is petite, tan, dressed in black and intense. Plus, she, is quick witted, sharp tongued, given to quick, short movements of her body. Within seconds we are peppered with questions about our reason for being in her office. She darts back and forth from the paperwork she has in front of her to glaring at us while asking what makes us think my husband has Parkinson's Disease in the first place, who told us he had Parkinson's, what evidence do we have and from whom.
We had come for answers, wisdom, direction and instead we were met with the odd sensation that perhaps we had jumped down the same rabbit hole as Alice in Wonderland and immediately encountered a wicked queen who was shocked to see us in her realm. I answered question after question although I felt disoriented and then incredibly angry and was ready to roll my dear husband out of that wicked queen's office with my head thrown back in a haughty good-bye. But just as I was building up to our grand exit, she and I had a moment. Woman to woman kind of moment. A sharp exchange of words and an epiphany. She was not a wicked queen and we were not down the rabbit hole. She knew immediately that Parkinson's was not the correct diagnosis but she did not say it. In that moment of clarity she and I connected, the questions became cohesive and the road was renamed and began to be mapped. The woman neurologist was perfection. The day was saved. Glory!
What? Oh, the diagnosis...lumbar stenosis and frontal lobe dysfunction of some undefined type. She believes my husband's back was hurt quite some time ago and over the past few years has completely disabled him. She wonders if he has had a stroke or mini-strokes due to other symptoms she identified. She knows he is in extreme pain and encourages me to keep him medicated at a level where the pain is negligible. We are to go for a scan of his spine and his brain. She got absolutely excited because she believes there will be an evident problem with his back and, in that case, believes she can help him.
The saga of being home with him and care-taking is a saga for another day. It is difficult for both of us. Only difference is that he is stoned on highly effective pain meds. Would I trade places with him? No! He is in a tough spot...an incredibly tough spot. And, I am his care-taker. Poor man! He can't get a break!
Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. More will be revealed. I hear Sonny and Cher singing "The Beat Goes On" way back in a corner of my mind. I am so happy I am not hearing John Denver singing. What was up with that dude anyway?
We drive the thirty plus miles to see the male neurologist who was, by several accounts, going to be the cat's meow of neurologist's. I, at least, was excited. My husband, in pain and deep into the pain medication plus never one for excitement, simply wanted to get it over with and crawl in a hole.
I, according to a professional, am given to occasional histrionics which means, in plain language, no moment is a dull moment with me. Every fire is a five alarm fire and every potential for seeing "the professional" means success is just around the corner. The description I gave is an example of histrionics. I was just histrionic about histrionics. Oh my! Well, ADHD and histrionics not withstanding we arrive at the office of the neurologist, sign in and the rules of engagement change immediately. We are not going to be seen by the miracle worker, the highly recommended sure thing guy. We are seeing a woman neurologist whom no one mentioned at all. I stay quiet. My husband hasn't a clue. He is hoping that I do not jam his foot into the doorway of the room we are entering. He is hostage to me as I push him along in the office wheelchair. He is hostage to me all the time now. I guess most folks would say I am hostage to his inability to walk or think well. Every story has two sides. My husband has always been as immune to being taken hostage as anyone I have known and now he is at the mercy of my care-taking. He appreciates it but it is an unnatural alliance for us. I have managed to chase another squirrel...
The woman neurologist appears in the doorway of our room. She is petite, tan, dressed in black and intense. Plus, she, is quick witted, sharp tongued, given to quick, short movements of her body. Within seconds we are peppered with questions about our reason for being in her office. She darts back and forth from the paperwork she has in front of her to glaring at us while asking what makes us think my husband has Parkinson's Disease in the first place, who told us he had Parkinson's, what evidence do we have and from whom.
We had come for answers, wisdom, direction and instead we were met with the odd sensation that perhaps we had jumped down the same rabbit hole as Alice in Wonderland and immediately encountered a wicked queen who was shocked to see us in her realm. I answered question after question although I felt disoriented and then incredibly angry and was ready to roll my dear husband out of that wicked queen's office with my head thrown back in a haughty good-bye. But just as I was building up to our grand exit, she and I had a moment. Woman to woman kind of moment. A sharp exchange of words and an epiphany. She was not a wicked queen and we were not down the rabbit hole. She knew immediately that Parkinson's was not the correct diagnosis but she did not say it. In that moment of clarity she and I connected, the questions became cohesive and the road was renamed and began to be mapped. The woman neurologist was perfection. The day was saved. Glory!
What? Oh, the diagnosis...lumbar stenosis and frontal lobe dysfunction of some undefined type. She believes my husband's back was hurt quite some time ago and over the past few years has completely disabled him. She wonders if he has had a stroke or mini-strokes due to other symptoms she identified. She knows he is in extreme pain and encourages me to keep him medicated at a level where the pain is negligible. We are to go for a scan of his spine and his brain. She got absolutely excited because she believes there will be an evident problem with his back and, in that case, believes she can help him.
The saga of being home with him and care-taking is a saga for another day. It is difficult for both of us. Only difference is that he is stoned on highly effective pain meds. Would I trade places with him? No! He is in a tough spot...an incredibly tough spot. And, I am his care-taker. Poor man! He can't get a break!
Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. More will be revealed. I hear Sonny and Cher singing "The Beat Goes On" way back in a corner of my mind. I am so happy I am not hearing John Denver singing. What was up with that dude anyway?
Monday, August 3, 2015
A Mell Of A Hess! I Ain't Lying!
For those of you who notice what time I write these posts let me put you at ease. I worked this morning from 2:30 until 3:30 and I actually slept some before coming to work so I am doing better. Honest. I did just say in the post title that, "I ain't lying.!"
Parkinson's Disease! It sucks! Maybe I will write a book by that name one day. My husband has Parkinson's Disease. It has probably been growing inch by inch for 7 years but he would not see a doctor consistently and it takes awhile to diagnose it. Recently it took off like a coon dog chasing a rabbit. My husband called me saying he could not walk. I went home immediately. His lower back was hurting with such intensity that I could touch him with tiny pressure and he would clinch up in pain. He has a high pain threshhold level. He does not see doctors unless he has to see one and he DEF does not go to the ER. In the past two weeks we have been to the ER three times and called them to the house twice more. He is on heavy pain meds until we see a neurologist and I am doing what I can to make his world a kinder, gentler place. We are both exhausted with the effort. I thought I was having a mental and physical breakdown on Saturday. Turns out I was plain, garden variety exhausted in every way. I cried and cried. Cried with friends at church. I feel much better.
I believe in finding the jewel inside of the pile of crap. And we are experiencing a pile of crap that rose up and flung itself at us. So, dear crazy woman, nearly breaking down woman, living in the solution through the grace of God woman, what is the jewel, pray tell?
Turns out I have found several and it is early yet in this process.
My husband and I are growing much closer and transparent with each other.
I asked for help. From normal people...big jewel.
I cried and my husband held me and comforted me. Humility for a moment. Beautiful moment.
God reached me through the horrible, hideous, panick attack, body falling apart Friday that hit me like a ton of bricks when I tried to function.
I am not alone. Robert is not alone. We are not in control.
I don't have to know why or to understand the mysteries of God's work in my life. I can simply allow Him to have His way.
Pretty good for a beginning, huh? Pretty good to be given the privilege of helping my husband. Amazing to hear a sermon from a pastor (my pastor - I claim ownership in this instance) teaching from the Bible and that teaching comforting me, challenging me, lifting me up and reminding me that I, of my ownself, can do nothing.
The beauty of friends...oh joy...the beauty of friends!
More to come from the mell of a hess filled with blessings. Maybe if you look closely at your mell of a hess and dig through the crap you too will find jewels of your own.
By the way...this post did not go as planned. Sounds funny coming from the person who is writing it but I am an intuitive writer following where I am led. I planned to be pitiful and dramatic. O.K. That was for this Friday past...not for this Monday now but I'll be danged if I will title this post "Bejeweled"!
Parkinson's Disease! It sucks! Maybe I will write a book by that name one day. My husband has Parkinson's Disease. It has probably been growing inch by inch for 7 years but he would not see a doctor consistently and it takes awhile to diagnose it. Recently it took off like a coon dog chasing a rabbit. My husband called me saying he could not walk. I went home immediately. His lower back was hurting with such intensity that I could touch him with tiny pressure and he would clinch up in pain. He has a high pain threshhold level. He does not see doctors unless he has to see one and he DEF does not go to the ER. In the past two weeks we have been to the ER three times and called them to the house twice more. He is on heavy pain meds until we see a neurologist and I am doing what I can to make his world a kinder, gentler place. We are both exhausted with the effort. I thought I was having a mental and physical breakdown on Saturday. Turns out I was plain, garden variety exhausted in every way. I cried and cried. Cried with friends at church. I feel much better.
I believe in finding the jewel inside of the pile of crap. And we are experiencing a pile of crap that rose up and flung itself at us. So, dear crazy woman, nearly breaking down woman, living in the solution through the grace of God woman, what is the jewel, pray tell?
Turns out I have found several and it is early yet in this process.
My husband and I are growing much closer and transparent with each other.
I asked for help. From normal people...big jewel.
I cried and my husband held me and comforted me. Humility for a moment. Beautiful moment.
God reached me through the horrible, hideous, panick attack, body falling apart Friday that hit me like a ton of bricks when I tried to function.
I am not alone. Robert is not alone. We are not in control.
I don't have to know why or to understand the mysteries of God's work in my life. I can simply allow Him to have His way.
Pretty good for a beginning, huh? Pretty good to be given the privilege of helping my husband. Amazing to hear a sermon from a pastor (my pastor - I claim ownership in this instance) teaching from the Bible and that teaching comforting me, challenging me, lifting me up and reminding me that I, of my ownself, can do nothing.
The beauty of friends...oh joy...the beauty of friends!
More to come from the mell of a hess filled with blessings. Maybe if you look closely at your mell of a hess and dig through the crap you too will find jewels of your own.
By the way...this post did not go as planned. Sounds funny coming from the person who is writing it but I am an intuitive writer following where I am led. I planned to be pitiful and dramatic. O.K. That was for this Friday past...not for this Monday now but I'll be danged if I will title this post "Bejeweled"!
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