… your oxygen tank doesn’t QUITE match the turquoise of your outfit. Dang. And it’s not a great photograph. And the mirror has water spots. And your hair needs combing. And you aren’t wearing “yipstick”. And you don’t care….
Yep. Missing a friend right now. Sigh. Miss talking regularly and hugs. I miss talking with my patients and hugs! I missed hugs all through covid! It has sucked!
Virtual hugs to you all.
Maybe I will go lie face down in the yard and hug the grass. The stupid deer won’t let me hug them. I did touch a bird yesterday. I had a fledgling in my yard, a pine siskin. It had taken a bath in the birdbath and was all fluffed and asleep with it’s head tucked under it’s wing, on the edge of the birdbath. If I still had a cat, it would have been eaten. Boa Cat is buried in the back yard, sigh. Anyhow, the fledgling woke up and paniced and started moving around the yard. It went out into the neighbor’s driveway. I went around and dropped a piece of cloth over it and gently picked it up in the cloth and put it back in my fenced yard. Later it was stupid again. This time I just came and tried to shoo it back to the yard. Marginally safer as far as cats go, but at least it won’t get run over by a car. It wouldn’t shoo until I touched it gently. Then it hopped a little. It got back in the yard eventually. Hopefully it will figure flying out pretty quickly or else I won’t see it again.
Friends are still friends even when they part. I miss friends that I’ve lost, awfully. Wrote a poem called missing yesterday. I don’t feel quite like publishing it yet. Too raw.
Pneumonia is weird. I look good after I manage to not die from it. I start going outside a little more and I run in to people. “You look good,” they say.
“I nearly died of pneumonia.” I say.
“….but you LOOK good,” they say, looking confused.
It was weirdest in 2012 and 2014 when I had strep A and sepsis symptoms and couldn’t get any doctor in town to believe me. The out of town Pulmonolgist and Psychiatrist did. The ENT didn’t really care. The Neurologist said that it was not myasthenia gravis or one of those weird muscle diseases. How do you KNOW, I asked. “Your lungs are getting better and they wouldn’t be if it was one of those.” “Oh. So this is just really bad strep A in my muscles.” “Yes.” “And I will get better?” “I think so, eventually.” “But we don’t know and don’t know when.” “Correct.” How non-reassuring. The Infectious Disease doctor said we don’t know how to treat you but you can TRY taking one 250mg penicillin tablet daily. Didn’t work. I got nauseated pretty soon. In contrast to when I have pneumonia and can take 500mg four times a day. It’s ridiculous. The asthma/allergy testing was all negative and after the 2014 round my lungs healed.
I hope they do this time too.
I wonder if people will have the same, “Hey, you look really good,” as much with me being oxygen. Except I have the mask over the oxygen tubing (talk about tangled!!) so they can’t see my face anyhow.
“Hey, how are you?” someone says.
I hold up the oxygen tubing.
“OH.” they say.
“Okay,” I say.
I feel safest with the fallen
No one is good
I am afraid
Of the people who
pretend to be good
We fell down down down
like an eternity
like it would never end
We were bad
depressed drunk addicted
liars cowards thieves
We held our arms out
There was nothing to stop us
All we could do
As best we could
With all our hearts
If we had no words
Claw our way back
Some people fall
Are still falling
Are they crazy
Or do they choose
To stay with the angels?
The people who say
They are good
We look at them
We know they haven’t fallen
They are lying to us
They are lying to themselves
They are lying to the Beloved
They want to be good
They want what they say to be true
But it isn’t
I meet the eyes of another fallen
I can see the memory
Of infinite free fall
In their eyes.
May gives me time to go dark. My mother died May 15, 2000, right by Mother’s Day. Her birthday is May 31, right by Memorial Day.
I wrote this poem when I was not sure I would survive this round of pneumonia. I would like to see grandchildren. So far so good. It got a little dark, though. Sometimes it does that.
When I sit down to write a poem, I don’t know where it is going. I sit down with a question. The poem is the answer. Sometimes the poem is where I want to be emotionally. Usually I am not there yet.
it is almost as if each poem were a prayer.
Here I am again
give me a hug
it’s been a while
I’ve been so happy
I feel so loved
he has to go on a trip
to care for family
I am so sick
my heart hurts most of the time
it is tiring
it is tiresome
I may get better
pull up a chair
and I’ll make tea
There is a fabulous garden in Portland, Oregon decorated with bowling balls.
i have decided to decorate with oxygen tanks.
if anyone has any oxygen paraphernalia, I want it, please.
This art installation is titled “Tethered”. Or possibly “Chained.”
I have new friends.
Nothing is lost without something else being gained. When you put a bucket in the water and pull it up, no hole is left. The water equilibrates. The water rushes in to the new hole and there is swirling and chaos for a bit and then you can’t tell.
I took coffee in to my yard yesterday morning. I didn’t feel like eating much for the two days before that. I felt more like drinking alcohol but I pay a lot of attention to that urge. I drank some but stopped. There is way too much of that history in my family.
Caffeine, now. Also addictive. I’ve quit caffeine a couple of times. I quit back in medical school because my stomach hurt. Second year I kept falling asleep in the lectures. I tried standing up through them and woke up sliding sideways down the wall. I wonder if people laughed. Everyone was sick of sitting in that room, one floor up from the first year, and trying to learn an impossible amount of information. I don’t think people did laugh. We were all in the same boat after all. If they laughed, it was the laugh of recognition.
So I gave up and sat back down and took notes and fell asleep. My notes would trail off down the page at 40 minutes in to the lecture. Over and over and over. But there might be some advantages to hearing medicine in a dream state. Who knows?
My friends came while I was drinking coffee. Four pine siskins. I have named the first three Winken, Blinken and Nod. The fourth one showed up a little late. That one is Bill. Blinken is very fat and I suspect will appear abruptly thin after the eggs are laid.
A pair of juncos joined them. The feeder got a little bit chaotic when a house sparrow showed up. I thought there was a fifth pine siskin but I realized that this one had a pale pink hood: the lady of the house sparrow pair was present. Then my song sparrow, who sings every morning from across the street, came in. He and I have sung back and forth for years.
I have not seen a lady song sparrow yet. Or maybe she slipped in and out, she will be a little difficult to distinguish from the lady house sparrow and the pine siskins.
What joy to have new friends. I think I will have to fill the feeder every two or three days. It is spring and there will soon be new mouths to feed and everyone is hungry.
The photograph is not from my yard. It is from a wilder place, that is very beautiful.
There is a song, the laugh of recognition, on this album: https://stores.portmerch.com/overtherhine/music/the-long-surrender-cd.html
The whole album helps me to grieve.
Gray can be beautiful too.
Warning: this post contains some time out words.
How do I process the game you played?
I am the subject of the game.
Or the victim.
Or no, I refuse. It is your game. I was not playing. I am the honey badger, metabolism so fast that I have to run from one meal to the next or else I will starve. I eat whatever I can find: cobras, bees, anything. I eat or I die.
You have tethered a honey badger to oxygen by playing a game.
I am the football and you have been kicking me, throwing me, catching me, slamming me to the ground as hard as you can in the end zone.
And now that I am worn and damaged and torn, you’ll toss me away, not even notice me, and find a new ball.
You will need a new football. To play with.
I don’t envy that person.
The truth is, it will be one of you. The group will rest on their laurels, oh, we nearly killed her, wasn’t it great? We showed her. She is so stupid, took her what, 21 years to fucking figure it out? And she thinks she’s so smart.
I was looking for food because I am always hungry. The food insecurity goes back to infancy. Maybe to the womb: my mother says she was not to gain weight and spent the entire pregnancy longing for a gigantic ice cream Sunday. Think of being in a womb, attacked by antibodies to tuberculosis, and starving all the time. Might be a little bit worried when birth happens. Fuck, I am going through a tunnel, what horrors await me here? But maybe there will be more food.
Maybe someone will love me. Maybe there will be someone for me to love. And feed. We can give each other food.
My advice to you is don’t be the ball. I was the ball for 21 years. I was so hungry the whole time, for food and for love, that I kind of noticed but dismissed it as unimportant. Food and love were more important. Work and my patients were more important. You don’t matter and your games are trivial.
It will be the weakest one who will be the ball. You worry that you are the one. You should worry. You had better look strong right away. Post some horror. Write something really tough. Don’t show anyone any niggling doubts. Um, the ball is wearing oxygen. I am feeling a little bad about this. Are you feeling bad about this? The ball isn’t just crazy, it’s hurt. Actually crazy is an illness too: I know that you discriminate and think that cancer is a legitimate illness and that mania isn’t, but you are assholes. No, you’re too small and pathetic to be an asshole. You are a one celled animal that is clinging to a hair on an asshole and you get shat on daily. And you know, deep deep in your tiny shrunken heart, that you deserve it.
I am so glad I am not you.
I am tethered to oxygen. But I am healing. I don’t think you can. You are locked in your small sick pathetic triangulation competition and pretending that it’s a game that it’s ok that you are just playing.
Meanwhile, the oxygen is portable.
I have food and I have love and I have work to do that lifts me on wings. I will go too near the sun and light on fire and fall burning, but that’s ok. I’ve done it before. The ocean heals me, always. It is so much fun to fly!
This is in memory of my mother, my father and my sister. I miss all three and I love them and they love me. Today is the day my mother died. The longer we live, the more days are days when someone that we love died. But they are still here. They are in the rocks and the sky and the trees and the coffee cup. They are not in sugary donuts or foods that cause heart attacks. But they are all around us, cradle us, still love us. Joy to you and the memories of your loved ones who have gone on. Blessings.
…..I keep thinking of new ways to nearly strangle myself. I keep thinking that I have hung up the oxygen tubing on every possible thing I could hang it up on. But no, this was a new one. At least with this one I did not lock my car keys in the car. And even if I did, I can take the nasal cannula off. There is that moment of panic: AUGH I AM TRAPPED, but I am not really.
Today’s blog is especially for B who is not trapped.
Have a wonderful Saturday.