Need a new mobility scooter. My 13 year old one went kaput!

Need a new mobility scooter. My 13 year old one went kaput!

I'D LIKE TO SAY THAT MY HARD DRIVE CRASHED ...

or that the keyboard stopped working, or I dropped the damn thing. But no - I just payed almost 800 dollars for a new laptop because my less than five year old laptop won't stay connected. Yep. That's all. The power supply plugs into the wall socket like a champ. The three-pronged end plugs into the adapter with no problem at all. But the little doohickey that is supposed to connect with the whatchamacallit just inside the laptop will not stay connected. Twice I have sent the laptop to the local-ish repair shop recommended by Toshiba and twice they told me that the problem was solved. It is decidedly not fixed. My husband thinks that I add to the problem by not being gentle enough with the laptop; but it connects (or it should)
at the back of the computer while the cord goes to the right. Believe me, a prime selling point for the new laptop was that it connects on the right!
     Both before the last time I sent it to them and since, I have used hockey tape to try to keep it connected, but that puts strain on the cords, weakening them. I've had to buy three power adapters; I ordered one just yesterday in case that is the problem this time. It's a shame; it's a very nice computer - a Toshiba Qosmio with 4 GB ram, an intel 2.20 ghtz processor and a 640 GB hard drive. Since I have glaucoma and cataracts in both my eyes and a condition in both eyes called Premature Vitreous Detachment, I can't see very well, so the bigger the screen, the better. It does have a big screen - 18.4 inches, which is great vision-wise, but that is the only good part. It weighs close to 20 pounds, thereby minimizing any claim of portability.                         Handicapped, I am usually lying down, and I worry that I'll drop my heavy, extra large laptop on my nose!
     I feel odd about the whole thing. There is no software or hardware problem - it's a mechanical problem! I keep seeing that curvaceous female robot bunny walking past our hero, Bugs, Wise to her wiles, he looks at us, his audience, and says with a nod her way, he says, "Mechanical."  Then, "So it's mechanical!!"  Not a choice for me. It is of no use to me if I can't count on it staying connected. After the repair guys get all my info off the hard drive, perhaps they would like to buy it. I'll see what Bill thinks about that idea.
     The new laptop is a beauty. It's an hp Pavillion - 8 GB ram, Intel processor with 2.53 gHtz and 750 GB hard drive.
It has fingerprint password recognition and other nifty additions, so it will be a pleasure to use. I can hardly wait for it to get here! It's scheduled to arrive late this morning.
I began this post at about 1:00 am and it's 4:51 am now! 
I'm signing off after typing this post on a tiny Asus ee PC - I can't see the keyboard to type, nor can I read the screen to proofread. I have to put reading glasses - diopter 5.0 to read the screen, but it's really hard to get the notebook close enough for me to see it. Jeez!!
     HELP!!!
I'm just sayin'

PARTY DAY

 Today my husband and I hosted a party for my Mom's 85th birthday. We live in a cluttered little half a duplex and we have Duffy, our three-year old Cairn Terrier, and two cats, our velvety black Chloe O'Brien and Cleo Bloom, our black and white cat. They are 5 and 3 years old. Some of my relatives have allergies, and that plus the small size of our home makes it impossible to have family parties there. So we held Mom's party at her house. She is always worried that there won't be enough room for everyone and that there will be way too much food. Everyone was comfortable and there was, as usual, too much food, but she had a very good time. It's hard for me to get my head around the fact that my Mother is 85 years old. Then I remember that I am going to be 62 in a few months.

That's hard enough for me! My darling husband is 65!

Our older son is 32 and will be getting married this summer. Our younger son will be 31 next month. Time is marching inexorably on.

  In the photo there are two pictures of my Mom, taken 63 years apart with the pic on the left showing her high school graduation picture. She was 17. In the other pic, she is dancing at her granddaughter Annie's wedding. She was 80 years old.

Knowing her as well as I do, it is not surprising that she still looks so much the same. She is a very beautiful woman, both inside and out, as a family friend mentioned this week in remembering Mom on her actual birthday.

My Mom tries never to say a bad thing about anyone. She always says yes when someone needs her help, but she is still plenty savvy enough to distrust those soul-less people who prey on the elderly via phone, mail and now email. She chooses the charity she wishes to donate to. She has raised me and my three sisters and three brother with, as I like to tell her, not a bum in the bunch. Between us, we have 17 children among us. My sister, Mo, had a second son, our darlin son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin, uncle and friend, Eric, who passed away on Mid Summer's Day, June 21st in 2007. He was my nephew, my godson and my dear friend. I miss him very much. His little niece, Emma and his baby nephew, Noah, were both here today for their great-grandma's birthday party. Now, there are 4 great-grandchildren for The Mother. Luke, who is 4 and 1/2 and Emma, who is three and two baby boys, Noah, 7 months old, and Harrison, 3 months old.

Today, right before birthday cake, we had a champagne toast to our Mother. My brother Mike was the oldest brother there, so he gave the toast. "To our Mother on her 85th birthday. Eighty-five  ... to the next 85!!"

Our beloved Dad passed away in 1988. That's another number that's hard to believe. They were married for 42 years before Dad died of end-stage kidney disease - a hero. Mom ran him on the kidney machine in the finished basement of our house for 16 years. One of the doctors who was at his wake talked about how remarkable it was that in all those years, Dad had never  had even one infection. My Mom never had any medical training.

As pragmatic as always, back in the beginning when she had to practice giving an injection with a syringe full of water and an orange, she told me, "You do what you have to do." She was terrified. It was Christmas Eve. She had seven children, the youngest eight and six years old. She has just been told that her husband might die. I cannot ever imagine how alone she must have felt. 

When I think about it now, I wish I had done more to help her. Oh, I  helped out. My two other sisters and I split up the duties. My sister, Mo, was married and she and her husband took them on ski trips and to Puerto Rico and other places. My sister, Susan helped them with school and school-work. I, who likes to think of myself as the "fun" Aunt and back then as the "fun" sister, took them to the circus, to the movies and on weekend excursions. We went to Gettysburg  and Amish country when Mike was 12 and Ginny was 10, and once to the Kutztown Fair in PA. All things designed to help keep their minds of the fact, as much as possible, that their Daddy was very ill.

My Dad was only 68 when he died. That age gets younger and younger the closer I get to it. It's been nearly 22 years since my Father died. My Mom remarried and was happy with her second husband, who had been a dear friend of hers for 50 years before she married him. They were married for 10 years. So, she has buried two husbands and she remains one of the strongest people I have ever known. Since I am disabled and since I am blessed with the most caring and understanding husband, I try to come and stay with my Mom, usually for about a week at a time. Of all her strengths and her pragmatism, she really hates being alone. It's understandable. She lived at home with 5 siblings in her parents house until she married at 21. She had her first child when she was 22 and then she had me 11 months later. Over the years the other five kids came along. Then, when she was 61, her husband died after an illness that lasted more than 20 years. But she wasn't alone. One of my brothers still lived at home and my sister, Susan and I lived ten minutes away, and so we brought our children over all the time, both of us being stay-at-home Mom's when our kids were little. Then about 5 years later, she married my step-dad, so she was still not alone. She and my step-day moved away and all three of my brothers moved to the same town, so she was a built in babysitter. A LOT!

After my step-dad died, however, she was alone in her house. She lives in an adult community and she has dozens of friends; belongs to some lady's auxiliary clubs; plays golf and bocce; goes to meeting and dances; swims every day in the summer with her pals and she plays cards with good friends twice a week. But she hates coming home to an empty house. I hope, as my brothers get older that they begin to get into the habit of going to visit their Mother and at least have a cup of coffee with her.

It would be ideal if we lived closer. I know my husband would hate it, but I would love to live here. Everything is done maintenance-wise. There's a clubhouse and all the things I mentioned above. They have a small lake, the swimming pool and pets are allowed. Since our sons are grown and one will be married this year, we could get our house spruced up (we own it, now) and sell it and move here or someplace like it. While my Mom is still with us, hopefully for many years to come, I will live in NJ.

Someday, however, my husband and I would like to live in New England. He loves Vermont, but I need to live near the ocean. That would be Rhode Island, Massachusetts or Maine.  I'm iffy about Connecticut. Maryland, going the other way, wouldn't be too shabby, either. I don't know what will happen next to me or anyone in my family.

Who knows? I am looking forward to my son's wedding in August. My husband and I are going on a diet so that we will look better for our son and so that at least I will be able to sit comfortably in the airplane seat. As for now, we have no idea what will happen tomorrow. For now, let me say this:

My beautiful, caring and generous Mom is 85 years old and in very good health, God bless her. 

Here's to the next 85!!

I'm just sayin'.

http://blogs.bbcamerica.com/anglophenia/2011/01/12/share-bbc-americas-royal-wedding-countdown-widget

http://blogs.bbcamerica.com/anglophenia/2011/01/12/share-bbc-americas-royal-wedding-countdown-widget

Life is much to short ...

It is. Life is too short to waste any of it. And we never know what is going to happen next to us or to the people we love.

I have always tried to tell those I love that I love them. It's funny - my 84 year old Mom almost never says the words. "I love you." It doesn't seem to me as if it would be that hard to say, but for some people, it's almost impossible. I don't understand that at all. 

But - I know that my Mom loves me and my brothers and sisters, the rest of her family and her good friends. She shows it every day in what she does for all of us - in her actions, it's very plain to see. She loves me. When I speak to my Mom on the phone, which I do every day, I always end the conversation with an, "I love you."

She almost always replies, "Me, too." It took me a while, but as I matured, married and had children of my own, I realized that for my Mom, "Me, too" means, "I love you."

Once in a while, she says the actual words and I'm deeply touched every time. She told me some years ago that she'd been talking to a family friend who was a priest - Father Citeralla. She was upset because one of her kids (probably me) had complained that she never told any of her kids that she loved them. She told him that she would rather show her love than say the words. He had agreed with her and set her mind at ease. He became a confidante and he was very important to her for many years. By the way, all seven of we, her children,  did finally figure it out - for our Mom - "Me, too" means, "I love you very much."

Because I am the kind of person who seems to need to hear the words myself, with my own children and husband, family and friends, I always say "I love you." My older son, who is 31 , says the actual three words. My younger son, who is 30, says, "loveyoutoomom." I've tried to tell my sons how much I love them, but I don't have the words.

They can't understand until they have a child of their own.

My older son is engaged, so perhaps there will be a grandchild for me and my husband someday. I pray that my younger son meets someone who will love him with all their heart. 

Last Monday, my younger son called me and said, in a shaky voice, "Mom, I have bad news." When I asked what kind of bad news, he said, "It's really bad." Dave died.

Dave died?? David is ... was ... 30,  the same age as my son. They've been friends for most of their lives. My son used to go on camping trips with David and his parents when Dave and my son were boys. Dave's family had a comfortable above ground pool in their backyard. On hot days in the summer all through the past 20 years, Dave would call my son, who would grab his bathing suit and go to Dave's to spend time in the pool. I don't believe they ever actually swam. Sometimes they'd take a six pack of beers  and just sit in the pool, drinking beer and talk for hours. They also used to go out to meet other friends at a bar. My son has lots of funny stories about those times.

It's so hard to think of David in the past tense. And terribly sad.

David was invariably polite to me. He had a gentle voice and manner. He was an immensely talented musician, who left many personal musical compositions on his computer, written and sometimes performed by him.

30 is too young. Young people who are only 30 years old  are not supposed to die. We are supposed to die before our children. That's the rule.

My son and one of my nephews, another friend of Dave's, and my husband went over to his house to see his parents, and brother. My husband is a counselor, and he listened to Dave's Dad who talked for a long time.  

I couldn't go for the same reason I miss most important things - logistically, it's difficult for me since I have to bring the scooter, the rolling walker or my two canes. A few days later, I called Dave's Mom. I told her that I hadn't known what to say. She said, "There's nothing you can say." I, like everyone else, gave her my deepest condolences and then we talked about our sons and their friendship for about an hour. My husband has plugged my scooter in so that the batteries will be fully charged. I'm going to Dave's wake tomorrow and to his funeral on Monday morning. I would not miss it for the world. I'll use the canes tomorrow, and the scooter on Monday.

Dave's brother asked my son to do Dave's eulogy. My son  replied that he'd be honored. I know he'll do a wonderful job with it. 

I feel especially sad about Dave's death. His Mom told me that his cholesterol had been very, very high and that he had died of a heart attack - died in his sleep. I pray that he did not suffer for an instant - that he didn't wake up, but passed away peacefully. He was a gentle soul who burned brightly. 

I taught a music class for grades 1 - 8 at the Catholic grammar school my sons attended. One of my sisters also sent her four children to the school, so I had my own two sons, her four children and a little boy named David in my class among all the other pupils.

My older son and my niece were in the same grade, and my younger son, a nephew and David were in a different grade. My nephew shines brightly in my memory, because he had (and still has) a wide, brilliant smile. My younger son was quiet and so smart that he could barely say verbally what he was thinking - his mind literally went faster than his mouth. David had a sort of Beatle-style haircut - you know - with bangs - very dark  hair, a kind of pale face with freckles that stood out and an impish expression on his face and a glint in his eye. That is the memory of David that will remain clear. I know my son will miss him. His Mom found him after he didn't wake up when she called him. I cannot imagine the shock and grief.

When I think of poor Dave dying at the age of 30 it makes me very sad. But the idea of his Mom and Dad, bereft, breaks my heart. 

On mid-summers day in 2008, my nephew and godson, Eric, died suddenly. He was 25 years old. His death was the first tragedy my family had experienced. My family isn't unfamiliar with death. No one on this Earth is.  My Dad died at the age of 68 of end stage kidney disease. But -

he'd been ill for 20 years. Although he was young, he was very ill, and it was his time. Also, when someone lingers like my Dad did, you do a lot of your mourning ahead of time. But a young person dying unexpectedly is so hard to bear. My husband and I are going over to see Dave's parents in a few hours. All I'll be able to say is what I said over and over to my sister when her son died -

I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry.

Rest in peace, David. I will remember you.

Life is so short - don't waste it - do what you  need to do to make you and those you love happy - and if you can, tell those whom you love that you love them. Now. Right now.

I'm just sayin'.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

It's Already Friday and we're well into September

I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days about what it means to be handicapped. Disabled is the PC term these days. It doesn’t make much difference to me, but some people who have a disability want to be regarded as “differently abled”, and I get that. Especially if the person has a severe disability and doesn’t want pity or to be made to feel less of a person. My disability has developed over time and my own lifestyle was partially to blame. That does not make me any less handicapped. As I understand it, to be disabled or handicapped means that I am not be able to do some things that able-bodied people can, easily, or even at all.

This week I saw a post on some site in which the author wrote about “The Scooter Store Scam.” It seems that, to this person, the scam was the very idea that The Scooter Store can offer, as they do in their TV commercial, a mobility scooter or power chair “for little or no money” out of pocket. The person who commented on the “scam” said that it was a scam, because even if the person who would receive the scooter or chair without paying anything out of pocket, it wouldn’t really be free at all, since taxpayers like her would be footing the bill. (I don’t know what gender the poster was, so I’ve chosen to say her.)  She went on to say in a more aggravated tone that just that day she had seen a person shopping who was using one of the mobility scooter and that person was obese. The author of the post mentioned that, in her opinion, most of the people she’s ever seen using one of those mobility scooter were (in her words) fat slobs. She said she wanted to lean down to the obese woman in the scooter and say, “Why don’t you just stop eating and get some exercise!”

I didn’t post a comment. There are some people who will always find something to grouse about. I wonder if that angry person has ever had a weight problem. I have struggled with my weight almost all of my life. In fact, except for my the year I married my husband, (I lost 88 pounds, so I would look good in a wedding dress – and I did)! the last time I remember being actually thin was when I was ten years old. I’ve been in this war with fat for more than 50 years. Let me tell you, it’s never ending. When you see women like Marie Osmond and Jennifer Hudson showing off the weight they’ve lost – they look terrific – but they are not done! You have only to look at Oprah, and Kirsty Alley to see that. I realize that if I hadn’t been overweight and at times, very obese, then perhaps the arthritis of my spine and knees wouldn’t have been so severe. But it is. I use a mobility scooter. It took me three years to get disability in the first place;  I eventually had to hire a lawyer. In the beginning, I used a manual wheelchair, but I hated it with a fiery passion. It was too painful for me to wheel it myself; my husband or good friends had to push all 350 pounds of me around. I felt utterly handicapped and I never wanted to use it. I hated it. But I was deemed crippled enough to require a scooter. It was a candy apple red Pride Maxima (Heavy Duty, of course).

Here’s the thing. In the wheelchair I felt completely handicapped; useless – invisible. But in the scooter, I feel free. It’s a wonderful feeling, too!

In 2007, I went to a vascular surgeon to see why my feet looked and felt like rose-colored blocks of wood. Every time my own doctor looked at them, she worried more, so she sent me to see the surgeon. They weighed me on one of those  “down to the depot” scales. It was this huge, triangular apparatus that you had to climb up on. I felt like a semi at a truck weighing station. Too my everlasting horror, I weighed in at 340 pounds. It was the most I had ever weighed. All I could do was weep. My husband, who is always there with me and for me, held my hand when we went in to see the doctor. Inside the examination room, I realized that I’d been sandbagged. He was a vascular surgeon, but his partner was a bariatric surgeon. My own doctor and I had discussed this many times over the last ten years. I was afraid of weight loss surgery.  That was three years ago and I still am. However, I don’t weigh 340 pounds any more. I weigh about 270 pounds. I can’t walk much or stand in one place for more than a few minutes without pain, so it’s hard for me to exercise very much. I am better with my diet than I used to be. I still eat things I shouldn’t, but not to the truly ridiculous amounts I used to. I have diabetes, buy my blood sugar is well under control. I have cataracts and glaucoma in both my eyes, as a complication of diabetes. And I’ve been diagnosed with severe depression, as well, so I am truly disabled. I don’t like it, but we all play the cards we’re dealt, right?

I’m not whining about this – it’s just that some of us who are using those mobility scooters, overweight, obese, young, middle-aged or elderly, male or female – if our doctors and Medicare and our insurance companies think we deserve to use a mobility scooter or power chair – we do. That should be that.

If you know anyone who is disabled, ask them if it was difficult to get disability for a physical problem. All those undergoing dialysis because of end stage kidney disease get disability immediately, as do those who suffer from ALS, (Lou Gherig Disease). They are fatal illnesses. It seems to be easier to get disability for mental and emotional illnesses, but I think that’s a good thing.

If the person who complained about her taxes going to purchase mobility scooters and other things for obese people asked a disabled person what they had to go through to get the Government to allow them disability, maybe she would learn something. One of the final comments she posted was that she thought that maybe Medicare and insurance companies should stop giving out “free” scooters and power chairs to the fat slobs who use them, and begin handing out treadmills and diets.

Nice.

You never know why that person you see in a wheelchair or using a parking permit for a handicapped space needs that scooter.

I’m just sayin’.

Blogging For a Cause

I am really trying to be more disciplined about posting to this blog. Really. No - really. I am. I just suck at it! I should be better at it. I'm always home and I have a huge amount of time on my hands. I'm housebound rather than bedridden, but I have such a hard time walking or even standing in one place for longer than a few minutes, that once I do get downstairs to the living room/kitchen area of my small house, there isn't much I'm able to do. I'd love to be able to spend more time with my husband and family and I would, but it's just too hard.

I am one of those who suffer from an invisible illness every day. Well, okay ... my primary condition isn't all that invisible because I'm quite a bit overweight, and when I do get the rare opportunity to go outside of my house, I drive a candy-apple red mobility scooter. When I do walk I use a rolling walker or 2 canes, so I'm hard to miss! I have been "officially" disabled since 2000 with crippling degenerative joint disease of the spine. Also, the knees, shoulders and most other joints. The last bone-guy I went to took a look at the x-rays and MRI and declared my right knee "totally destroyed." The left knee is following along quickly. In a medical Catch-22, I can't have my knees replaced until I lose more weight. I need weight-loss surgery, but I am not a good candidate for such surgery. When I am out with my husband and I get out of our car, - with it's handicapped license plate -  which we park in a handicapped space, other people know right away that I am handicapped. I have other conditions or illnesses - diabetes, high blood pressure, glaucoma, cataracts and neuropathy; all of them invisible illnesses. For people who suffer from invisible illnesses, it is not as clear. 

Those who suffer from diseases like cancer, Chrons Disease, diabetes or MS don't carry signs around. You'll never see anyone carrying a sign that reads: I have cancer. Or: Give me a break - I just got out of the hospital.

People just don't do that. Healthy, able bodied people would be made to feel uncomfortable. Of course it's not done! People who suffer from those diseases and other invisible illnesses don't want pity. They don't want to say that the reason they are being so slow in front of you in line at the grocery is because the chemo therapy they just had that morning made them feel so weak.

I find the statistic pictured here mind boggling! It reads in full: "People do understand, we just don't know who you are."

I know that most people want to be able to help those in need. What those who suffer invisible illnesses want most of all is understanding. The person who gets out of the car that's parked in the handicapped space might not look handicapped to you and perhaps you feel a sense of righteous outrage. Hell, when I see someone who looks able-bodied walk from the car into their destination, sometimes I get so mad, I want to make a citizen's arrest.

I should be ashamed of myself. I, of all people, know that there are those who don't look ill, but are, and they need that parking space. That's why we have the placards or the handicapped license plates. Because we deserve to have them. They may be perks, but we need them. 

You know, those placards should not be easy to come by.

In order to get one, I had to fill out a form saying that, in my case, I wasn't able to walk more than 100 feet without pain. Then I had to have to signed by my doctor. I'd like to believe that all doctors are honest and trustworthy, but I've learned not to be naive. That's because it took me three years to finally get disability. I finally had to hire a lawyer. That cost me $5,000.00. I was not as crippled then as I am now, but several years ago, I had to go to a physical therapist rehab center so I could prove that I needed a mobility chair. The PT said, "Well, this shouldn't take too long. I've already seen you walk."

But there are people all over the place who have disability. It's not for me to decide who really needs it and who doesn't. I certainly should know better than to assume that someone isn't handicapped. How would I know, anyway? 

One invisible illness besides my own that I know about from personal experience is ESRD, which stands for End-stage Renal Disease. Once a person’s kidneys stop functioning a person has to undergo treatment on a kidney dialysis machine. They have reached the point, the end-stage, where, without the assistance of the kidney dialysis machine, they would surely die. Back in 1969, when my Dad learned that he suffered from End-stage kidney disease or ESRD (End-stage Renal Disease) it was what my Mother refers to as “the pioneer days” of kidney disease treatment.

Medically, things that have to do with the kidneys are fall under the topic: renal. Once the doctors figured out what he had, it became clear to my Mom that her husband had contracted an incurable disease. A person with kidney disease can be kept alive by being “run” on a kidney machine, an apparatus about the size of a washing machine that cleans the patient’s blood, but their quality of life has undergone a drastic change for the worse. Such invisible illnesses may be invisible to outsiders, but once the sufferer goes inside his or her home, the illness usually becomes all too apparent.

With a kidney patient, there is this medical procedure where a vein and an artery are surgically joined together, because the kidney machine requires arterial blood for it to work. The place where they are joined is called a “shunt.”  The blood comes out of the shunt, which is above the patient’s left wrist, goes through the tubes leading to the machine where it gets stripped of the poisons that had built up in the blood (and which are otherwise filtered by a healthy kidney) and then is returned to the patient’s body through a vein in the crook of the left elbow. That’s a vastly simplified explanation of what the kidney machine does. The kidney machine is also hooked up to the water line because water, is necessary. In March, 1972 Dad went on the kidney machine at St. Barnabas Hospital in Livingston, New Jersey. My Mom, a stay-at-home mother of 7 children - at that time, the oldest was 25, the youngest, 9 - took lessons at the hospital on how to run her husband on the kidney machine. In May of 1972, my Mom began running my Dad on the kidney machine in our home. Of the 8 people who took the classes to learn how to run the machine, all other 7 died in less than 2 years. My Mom ran my Dad on the kidney machine, which was set up in the finished basement of our home, with Dad seated in a leather recliner, for and ran him for 16 years and 7 months. My Dad’s doctor told my Mom that he didn’t know why my Dad lasted so long, but he didn’t think it was anything that he personally had done.  It was the quality of care my Mom provided for my Dad. A doctor friend of my family told my Mom that it was “a miracle” that my Dad had been on the kidney machine for more than 16 years and had never had an infection. I want to stress that my Mother had never had any medical training except the 3 month-long course she took at St. Barnabas Hospital in 1972 on how to run a kidney machine. She found out that my Dad had an incurable illness on Christmas Eve, 1969 and knew that she couldn’t tell her seven children anything about it; she didn’t want to spoil our Christmas.  She bore the knowledge that her husband was going to die, perhaps soon, all alone that Christmas Eve. In the days, months and years that followed, my Mom gathered her formidable strength and, as is her way and repeating often what is one of her life’s guidelines, she “did what she had to do.” Once she began taking care of my Dad, all the while running the household and raising 7 children, she set up a routine. My older sister (by a year) and one of my younger sisters, (3 years younger) were old enough to help my Mom with our younger brothers and sister.                                                                                                                   My Dad died of end-stage kidney disease in 1988, at the age of 68. He is my hero for what he endured during the 19 years he suffered from his truly awful “invisible illness.” He tried his best to go to work every day, even when he was so weak, it was hard for him to walk. My Mother, who is now    84 years old, is my hero now and forever.

What can you do to help those who suffer from an invisible illness?  For a person who could be your next door neighbor or one of the teachers at your child’s school?  

http://invisibleillnessweek.com/category/get-involved/

 At the above link, you’ll find ways you can help.

September is Pain Awareness Week. At this link:  http://www.painfoundation.org/take-action/action-network/about-us.html  you’ll find information about how many people suffer from pain and how it affects all of us. The American Pain Foundation is sponsoring a Virtual March on Washington to raise awareness about pain and those who have to deal with it. The people at Invisible Illnesses have joined forces with the APF about this important subject.

I have used the word “suffer” over and over in this particular blog. Many people who have an illness or condition, apparent or invisible, have little or no quality of life. For some of them, life is something to be endured rather than enjoyed. A doctor, a pain management specialist whom I saw because of my own chronic pain, told me that eventually, every person who suffers from chronic pain gets to the point where even narcotic pain relievers will stop working. That’s quite a grim statement, isn’t it?

There are ways any one of us can do something to provide aid for those who need it.  

Find out how you can help. I’m just sayin’.

Change of Season, Change of life??

Another week almost over. We're sliding headlong into September and a change of season. As I live smack in between the middle Atlantic and New England, I'll probably be dealing with hot, summery weather all through September. I hate the heat. I hate it with a fiery passion. At my age, since I started into my "change of life at around 45, I thought naively, shouldn't I be done with the hot flashes? I asked my Mom when the nutsy hormone bombs and the hot flashes went away for her. She, an extremely self-controlled, practical woman, said, "Well. I'm 71 and I still have them." Aaaaaauuuuugggghhhhh!!! That was 13 years ago! I was 48. I'm 61 now and Mom is 84. I'm afraid to ask her again.

I've hated the heat all my life - really, since I was a little girl. My brother, John, never did well in the heat, either. We get it from our Mom. She told me that she never was one for lying out, basking in the sun, even as a teenager. When she went with her pals to Jones Beach or Riis Park, she always covered up in the sun. That was decades before sunscreen and warnings about skin cancer. She just didn't like the sun shining directly on her - it made her too hot. I have always been right there with her on that. Except that when I got a chance to go down the shore with friends when I was a teen, I went right out in the sun. Several times I had second degree burns, once on 45% of my body. I was the classic dope in the sun. When I got older and smarter, I began to use sunscreen with the highest protection, but now, I am just like my Mom. I just don't go out in the sun. The only little problem with that is that my husband and sons are almost sun worshippers, so as the kids grew up, I almost never went to the beach with them. When we were much younger, when our boys were about 4 and 5, we rented a house down the shore in Barnegat Light in Long Beach Island, or LBI, as it is called. It was much, much less expensive 25 years ago than it is now - that's for sure!! We brought 2 cars and Bill and the boys would go to the beach, while I went shopping or read books. I always made a huge breakfast, because on the middle weekend and during the week, we were never alone. All of my brothers and sisters were welcome, as well as their friends and ours. We always had a full house, which I loved. Some mornings, I'd feed 10 people. Then they all packed and went to the beach. I cleaned up, swept all the sand out of the little house, again, and settled down to read. I read through the shore newspapers that you can pick up for free all over the Island. Then I tucked into the paperback books I brought from home and those I bought while shopping. One 2-week period we had this lovely little house across the street from the bay. So quiet and peaceful. It had a front porch and a bedroom with windows that provided a cross-breeze. During those 2 weeks, I read 27 books. J When my sisters rent houses down in LBI, they rent down at the other end of the Island where there's a bit more to do. Lots of stores and restaurants and closer to the causeway and the highway leading to more places with things to do. We are not in a position right now to rent a house down the shore, but when we can - it will certainly be on the quieter side of the Island. Man! If we won the lottery, I'd have a house in LBI with a flag I could raise that said Party Here!

My parents first took us to LBI nearly 50 years ago. I love it, especially Barnegat Light, more than any other place I've ever been. I haven't gone down the shore this year.

My husband and son are there today with quite a few members of my family.

I'm very happy they're there.

I have been officially disabled since 2000. It took me almost 2 years to get disability. In fact, I had to get a lawyer in order to finally get it. Heh. I am quite a bit overweight still, but I was near 400 pounds back then. The lawyer looked at me and said, "Didn't anybody weigh you??" In his opinion, I should have gotten disability just for being obese! I've been fighting for years for people to realize that, even if I am a fat woman, I suffer from crippling arthritis in my spine and my knees and everywhere else. When I lose enough weight, I can have both my "completely destroyed" knees replaced, if I can afford the damn co-pay. The last bone-guy I saw looked at my x-rays and MRIs and gave me that opinion. My right knee, the "bad" one, was "completely destroyed." That was about a year and a half ago. My left knee is catching up much faster. However, even if I do ever get my knees replaced, I can't get a new spine. I have been taking Oxycodone for 10 years and a pain killer called Fentanyl for the past 5 years. I had a procedure done on my lumbar spine - for Facet Arthropathy. Along with osteoarthritis; degenerative joint disease, the facet nerves at the sides of the vertebrae were also affected. For whatever reason, my spine has a lot of this degenerative joint disease, which leads to chronic pain. It's a big important topic among doctors and surgeons, insurance companies and their damn bean counters and, some people in the government are very interested. As long as I'm concerned, anyone discussing this topic had better either have chronic pain themselves, or they are in close contact with a lot of people who suffer from chronic pain. These people in the medical community and even the government are all up in arms about lots and lots of people becoming addicted to the opioids which seem to be the only thing they can really prescribe for chronic pain that actually almost work. Nothing takes the pain away. I read about one doctor who said that maybe they should just stop prescribing any narcotics and start from scratch. "You know what Doc," I'd like to say to him, "Unless you personally suffer from chronic pain every day of your life, you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

I saw a doctor who only works on backs. That's what he told me. I like him a lot. Hell, he's another Yankee fan. He did the facet nerve procedure on my back and there has been much less pain. Later, at a follow-up visit, I asked him if he would look at my "good" knee that was really hurting me. He said, "Oh. I don't do knees." He's a surgeon, for God's sake, but he doesn't do knees - not even to have a look! I have not had a resumption of the truly awful pain I had in my back since then. However, I stay in bed almost all the time - all day long, every single day. My husband can't take the time off work to cart me around. He does everything else in this house. Everything. I hate that he does. - not much gets done, but he takes care of me. I love him for that, but I feel so trapped.

That was what I meant to say as I began this post. Seasons change. My body is changing, what with the medical problems I have. Crippling DJD, diabetes, high blood pressure, diagnosed severe depression, glaucoma and cataracts in both eyes, which makes reading hard, and some coronary artery disease since I had a small heart attack last year. Chronic pain. A mobility scooter so I can go somewhere - anywhere. 2 canes to enable me to walk. When I had the facet nerve procedure I was taking 25 mcg of the narcotic I take for pain. Now I take 200 mcg with the Oxcodone (Percocet) is for what's called breakthrough pain. The Yankee fan Doc told me that every person who suffers from chronic pain finally comes to a place where nothing takes the pain away. Grim, eh?

So my Saturdays are pretty much like the Friday before them. The only thing that changes in my life are happening inside my body. On the outside, one day runs into another. I'm grateful that I live in a place where the seasons do change noticeably. Sometime gloriously.

I do love the fall. Autumn is my favorite season. I feel energized, when I'm outside in cooler weather, like others are by spring, the season on renewal. Fall, the time when things go to sleep, resonates in me. I am happiest and most comfortable when the temperature is 50° during the day and 20° at night.

Although I'm a New Jersey person who happens to love her state, I also love Vermont. (Even though it has NO ocean!) I love the hills and mountains and farms. I love that the whole state seems to celebrate autumn. Bill has promised to take me to Vermont in October. He swears that I'm not a burden. Ha! I know better. I am the world's worst packer. I take everything I might need. The scooter is ungainly and harder and harder for him to move in and out of the car. We have this car that even Donald Duck wouldn't drive!

We'll have to rent a car, which means a station wagon so the scooter will fit. I do have a power chair, a Hoveround, which I use in my kitchen. I don't like it as much as I love my scooter, but I'll use it. If it fits in a car trunk, we'll rent a car. Besides my luggage J, my personal transportation, my bag of medications and my computer, I will be taking my dog, Duffy with us. "The Girls", our 2 cats, Chloe O'Brian and Cleo Bloom, are perfectly happy staying in the house over a weekend. We leave them plenty of food. We have a bubbling water dish for them and they have lots of ventilation. Since they sleep 16 hours a day, they don't require much. Duffy, on the other hand, would pine for us, especially his Lord and Master and best Friend, Bill. I know that Duffy loves me, but I swear, I could lie, bleeding in the middle of the room and Duffy would be right there with me … until he heard Bill coming. Then it would be Bye-Bye, Miss Ellie!

He's a great little dog with a kind of determined walk I call jaunty. On his AKC papers, his name is Constable Hamish Mac Duff, but we call him Duffy. He is our 9^th dog. We've been married for almost 33 years. When I married Bill, he realized, God bless him, that my Cairn Terrier, MacTavish, was coming with me as part of a package deal. J He had grown to love her, so he didn't mind. He had never had a pet in his life. Ever. Not even a goldfish that he won at the Parish Carnival. MacTavish was 5 when I married Bill. When she was 10, we thought she needed company, so we got another dog, a wonderful Yellow Lab named Aspen. She perked right up and she lived to the age of 15. Aspen, until he was 12. Since Aspen, we have always had 2 dogs at a time and a couple of cats. In 2006 we had to have our 14 year old Boomer put down and in April of 2007, we had to do the same with our dog, Splinky. I don't like to compare the dogs, because each one of them brought love and loyalty to us. Life would have been unimaginable without them. But Splinky - Splinky the Faithful Dog - Splinky, the Wonder Dog, was something special. I loved her very much, but Bill, who let me have her when I saw her in the shelter, came to love her dearly. He had a really tough time when she died; he was so sad. A few days later, we realized that it was the first time in our 30 year marriage when we did not have a dog. We didn't like it. I knew that Bill wanted to get a smaller dog and I knew he'd loved MacTavish, so I searched the Internet until I found a breeder in upstate New York. Bill took me up there in an 8-hour round trip. We looked at 2 twelve week old Cairn Terriers and chose the same one immediately. My Mom had chipped in some of the cost. We paid the breeder and were pointed homeward in less than half an hour. We love our Duffy so much. He adds joy to our lives. All the dogs before him were trained by me. Because of my disability, I can't do very much with him. I can't walk him or get down low enough to the floor to teach him certain tricks. I've taught him to sit up like a little cookie jar, shake hands, say hello with a wave, high five and the sit/stay/down commands. Right now he is learning to fall down on his side when we say, "Bang!" He's getting it. He still won't come when called. Stubborn little guy. I'll get him to do it, though. Even though I am the one who trains him and gives him treats, he is Bill's dog, absolutely. He's the very first dog Bill has ever had. Oh, both of us own him, and Duffy does love me, but he adores Bill. Which is okay. They need each other, I guess. Here is Duffy as a puppy at 3 months

and here he is recently. There he is,

looking like a Cairn Terrier cookie jar!

This time this was a ramble and a half. I do mean to write every day - I just suck at it.

I'm just sayin'

Come Saturday Morning

Good Morning! Here it is, another Saturday. For most of you, it's the beginning of the end to the workweek. A mini-vacation. A respite. For me, one day usually runs into the next, no one different than the other. I do have to say, though, that the past 2 weeks were nice for me. My husband and I house/pet/pool-sat at my brother's house, while he was on vacation, down the shore. For those of you who are not from New Jersey, down the shore means at the beach. While he and his wife and their 2 children, and assorted family members and friends were there, I was at his house. He has a wonderful, well-behaved, soulful looking hound dog-mix and a cat. The dog, Zoe, is lovely, sweet-natured and a bit on the needy side. She's very afraid of thunderstorms; a little less afraid of fireworks. My brother and his wife also have a cat. I don't remember her name. This stay, I saw her once during the whole time I was there. We always know she's somewhere about - the food disappears and there are deposits made to the litter box. I don't know which room she stays in, or how the dogs don't find her. Well - I guess they are why she hides in the 1^st place.

When we stay at my brother's house, we always bring our dog. Our current dog, (we are on our 9^th) is a 2-½
year old Cairn Terrier. On his "official" papers J his name is Constable Hamish Mac Duff, but we call him Duffy. We always feel that Zoe might like to have her "cousin" to pal around with while we're there. My eighty-four year old Mom lives in the same town as my brother, so she comes over every day to spend time with me. I try to spend as much time as I can with my Mom. I adore her and we get along well. We like a lot of the same things, watch some of the same TV shows and are both rabid New York Yankee fans. In my case, I've been a Yankee fan since I was about 6 years old. The Mother (my Mom), had to learn to like them. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, "Noo Yawk" (New York), so she was a fan of "Dem Bums", the Brooklyn Dodgers. When the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles, CA, in 1958, they broke the hearts of thousands of Brooklynites. To this day, there are some oldsters from Brooklyn who have never forgiven them. Many Dodgers' fans didn't have anyone to root for a couple of years, until the newest team to join the storied New York sports teams arrived on the scene: The New York Mets. Some fans, of course, did stay with the Dodgers, but the Mets were right there for ex-fans of the now LA Dodgers to adopt. They certainly couldn't be expected to root for *Gasp!* the Yankees!! Brooklyn Dodger fans grew to adulthood hating the Yankees. Even their beloved team's dumping them for climate of sunny California could make them turn to the Yankees, so many of them became Mets fans. She was saddened by the defection, but my Mom wasn't all that affected. She'd married a man 10 years before the Dodgers went to LA, who was a complete Yankee fan. Through the years of their marriage, as they raised 7 children together, my Mom began to be more and more of a Yankee fan, reluctantly at first, but less so as time went on. She had to. All of their children had grown up to become Yankee fans. Mom was simply outnumbered. Now, as the matriarch of our family, she is a complete Yankee fan. She thinks that Derek Jeter is a "very nice young man" and she is a great fan of Mariano Rivera.

This time, when I stayed at my brother's house, I was on my own during the week since my husband had to work. I'm always happy that my Mom comes to hang out with me when I'm at my brother's house, but this time, she was more welcome than ever. She insisted on staying overnight with me the first night Bill wasn't there, but I convinced her that I'd be fine every other night. She likes to be with people - she really doesn't like to be alone and I love her company. It makes me very happy that she seems to enjoy my company as much as I enjoy hers. Not only do we like a lot of the same things, but I also know who most of the people she talks about were and are, so I can follow the stories she likes to tell. I continue to learn from my Mom at the same time I'm learning new things from my grown sons. Happily, there are some things I can still teach them! I was perfectly fine overnight. I just had to make sure the dogs went out at about 11. Each night they wanted to go out again at between 2 and 3 in the morning! Duffy, the most continent of all dogs ever, doesn't ask at home. In fact, when Bill leaves for work he lets Duffy outside or goes out with him to play 'fetch the tennis ball.' Sometimes, he leaves at 10 and doesn't get home until after 7:30. Duffy not only doesn't let me know that he needs to go outside, but he almost never goes outside when I open the door for him. He just waits most of the time. He is completely housebroken - he does let us know if he has to go, it's just that he seems to be able to hold his water for an extremely long period of time. Bill always says that we'll get home to find poor Duffy with "all 4 legs crossed", but, nope. He's really a very good little guy. I love how he walks. As I've said, Duffy is a Cairn Terrier. Some of you may know that the little dog who was Toto in 1939's The Wizard of Oz, was a Cairn Terrier. That dog was black. Duffy is a dark brown, brindle color. (Bill thinks he's grey). He's not grey. My first Cairn was a wheaten color - a blond. J She was 5 years old when I married Bill, who was smart enough to realize that she and I were a package deal. J Her name was Lady Fiona MacTavish, but she was always called MacTavish. She was my husband's very first pet. In his 33 years up to when he married me, he never even had a goldfish from the Parish Fair!! Bill adored MacTavish and she loved him right back. She lived to be 15. That's fifteen years-worth of unconditional love. Bill buried her behind the fence at the back of our property. Heh. When she was about 10 years old, I thought she was really slowing down. At the time, we knew that Cairn Terriers were long-lived, we just weren't sure how long, so we looked around for another dog, to keep her company in her "golden" years. We learned that Seeing Eye of Morristown, where they breed, raise and train dog guides for the blind, sometimes puts dogs up for adoption. Some are old and their person can't keep them and a new dog, too. (Seeing Eye dogs aren't expected to work for their entire lives. They are retired after about 5 to 6 years of age. Many blind person keeps their seeing eye dog, or it goes to a family member, but there are some that go up for adoption. Some, on the other hand, are young dogs, that for some reason, couldn't work as a Seeing Eye dog. The one we heard about was 8 months old, had been in the kennel at the University of Pennsylvania for about 5 months. He had gone through the beginning of the training that all Seeing Eye dogs go through - they go home with a family to be fostered, taught their doggie manners and begin to learn what will be expected of them later on in their lives. This dog, however, had arthritis in his right elbow. As such, he couldn't be counted on to work every day, so he was put on the adoption list. Bill's cousin, Tom, lived in Morristown, where Seeing Eye is, and he went to look at the dog. He called that night and he said, "I massively suggest that you call right away and get this dog while you still can!" Well, Bill went to look at him and surprised me by bringing him home with him. He cost us a donation of 20 bucks, which is what Bill had in his wallet. They even threw in his collar and least. His name was Aspen. He and my Mike were the same age. Chris was 2, so they grew up with Aspen. As it turned out, Aspen's arrival kick-started MacTavish, giving her a new lease on life and she lives another 5 years, so my boys grew up with both of them for a while. Aspen's coming was a turning point of sorts for us, too. After MacTavish died, we got a Cocker Spaniel puppy whom we named Meriadoc Brandybuck or Brandy. After those 2 died, we always had 2 dogs at a time. When my dog, Splinky died in 2007, Bill and I realized that for the very first time since we were married 30 years before, that we didn't have a dog and we really didn't like us. I remembered how much Bill had loved MacTavish and I thought we were ready for a smaller dog, so I searched for a breeder who we could afford. We drove up to upstate NY, took one look at the darker of the first 2 puppies we saw, paid for him and took the puppy home. My only problem Is that I want another dog. I love having 2 dogs for the same reason we have 2 cats right now. Two are more fun than one. I'll have to work really hard on Bill. Ah, well. I have my work cut out for me.

Today, tomorrow and Monday will be above 90°, so we are in for another heat wave. Yippee. It's not only going to be hot again here in the northern part of the country, but also out West. At least this heat wave won't be like the one 2 weeks ago, when the temperature got above 100° for three days in a row. Luckily, and thankfully, I will be in my room in air conditioned splendor. I have never done well in hot weather, even before I got old enough to become acquainted with lovely hot flashes. Now, I'm too hot when it's above 72 and I'm almost never cold. I mean, I never, ever wear sock, even when I have to go outside when there's snow on the ground. Socks make my feet way too hot!

While I was at my brothers last week and this past week, even when the temperature was above 100°, I was really looking forward to going swimming in my brother's wonderful in-ground pool. That pool is one of the reasons we agreed to house-sit for him when he needed us to do so. We've been doing it since before they had their dog, and that's about 7 or 8 years, I think. I wanted to go in the pool. My sister-in-law and I share a dislike for cold water. She doesn't usually go swimming nearly as often as the rest of her family does. The temperature of the water in the pool doesn't get to the mid-80's until August. But this summer has been a warm one and she told me that she went swimming every day. I was stunned. The first day we were there 2 Saturdays ago, Bill went in the pool and came back to tell me that the temperature of the water was 85. That's even warm enough for me! Unfortunately for me, the only way to get down to the pool is via two flights of stairs. I have degenerative joint disease (also called osteoarthritis) of my spine and both my knees and in most other joints to varying degrees. My right knee is the "bad" knee, making the left one, of course, the "good" knee. Not so much anymore. Just in the last several months, the good knee has become more like the bad one. It's difficult to bend either one now without a lot of pain, and steps are particularly hard. I did go down to the pool that first, really hot week, and the water was absolutely glorious. The only way it could have been chilly was if a strong wind blew, but there was no breeze. I stayed in the pool for almost 2 hours, which is a lot for me. I had gone down the outside steps that lead off the deck, but it was really hard and there are more of them than inside. When coming back in, I climbed up the shorter, first flight, using a cane, but I had to crawl up the second flight. It took so much out of me that I didn't go in the pool again that week because Bill wasn't there with me. I went in the pool again this past Sunday because he was there to help me on the steps. It was just as hard and after I was back in bed, my good knee was really swollen for the very first time. That doesn't bode well, I'm a-thinkin'.

I guess I'll just stay in my bedroom today and tomorrow. We have this car that I swear Donald Duck wouldn't even drive and right now it doesn't have any air conditioning. My husband uses his car to get to his clients. I cannot imagine how awfully uncomfortable he must have been two weeks ago when it was so hot! I sure as hell won't be going out anywhere in that car this week, Oh - except for one day when I have to go to a women's imaging center to have a battery of tests done. Huzzah. I'll talk more about that as the week goes on. I hope. I am not very good at this daily journaling. I've been trying to keep a daily journal long before The Internets came along. I found one of those little fabric-covered books with the ruled pages a few months ago. I'd begun writing in it when I was pregnant with my first child, who turned out to be my son, Christopher. Chris will be 32 early next year. The book has about twenty paged written on. After I wrote a bit about how it felt to be pregnant and a teeny tiny little bit about being a new Mom, I stopped for a while and then began writing down the few family recipes I had inherited from my Grandma Meaney. After about 3 or 4 recipes, those stopped, too. I always mean to be better at it, I just never can seem to. I'm giving it another try, as you can see.

I hope I do better this time. I'm just sayin'

 

 

 

 

A Very Slow Friday

I usually write in blue. I feel more comfortable in blue, more like myself. It's hard to explain. I was thinking about death today. A few years ago I was referred to a regular guy of a psychiatrist, first name, Michael, surname initial C. My own dear doctor, whom I respect and admire and like very, very much, no longer wanted to care for that part of my illness. Hell, she was already taking care of the "crippling" arthritis, the type 2 diabetes, the high blood pressure, the coronary artery disease and the neuropathy and other complications from diabetes. She thought I needed to see a specialist for the constant state of worry, anxiety and deep sadness that hovered over me like a little dark rain cloud. So I saw Dr. Michael C, PhD, MD. He was very nice to talk to. He seemed to listen well to what I was telling him and he forked over the tissues when I needed them. When I am sad, I tend to just leak tears. No sobbing and such, unless you really get me going. No – the corners of my most of the time smiling mouth turn down and tears just slide out from under my lashes and roll a bit forlornly down my cheeks. So, he forked over the tissues and I would mop up the tears. After reading what my own Dr. Octo had to say about me from her notes from the ten years I'd been seeing her, and after listening to me, Dr. Michael C. gave me a diagnosis of Major Depression with Passive Suicidality. Whoa! I never heard of that. Not the major depression part. I've been treated for depression by my Dr. Octo and several other doctors before her for the past sixteen years. No – it was the passive suicidality part. I don't see how those two words can go together. I mean, can you passively kill yourself? I know that people take too many meds they shouldn't be taking all at once but who save themselves, either by vomiting up what they took or calling someone for help; or by slitting their wrists incorrectly. Sometimes that kind of person didn't really mean to kill themselves, but, oops! But I don't see trying to commit suicide, whether you succeed or not, to be a passive thing. Then I learned that passive suicide is what I like to think of as the "'It's a wonderful life' syndrome." Thinking about what life would be like if… It's kind of silly, though, because I wouldn't find out, would I? No. I'd be dead. I happen to have very strong feelings about suicide. I think it's a selfish, even vicious act. It makes me sad to think that there are people in this world who can feel so low that they think it won't matter to a single soul if they live or die. Or who feel that life is so hopeless, so truly awful that they would rather be dead. Whatever religious beliefs I have now, if any, or have had in the past, I just don't know what will happen to me when I die. Not one of us does. We hope there's something else. That's what all the varied organized religious groups are selling us. Hope that there is something for us to experience after this life is finished and we "shuffle off this mortal coil", as Shakespeare put it. Religions, whatever name they give to either a single creator or several or dozens – they all like to call it faith, but who are they kidding? It's a hope, a prayer, a wish, a promise. Either we stop when we die. Whatever makes me different from the next person I meet just comes to its end. Stops. Turns off like a light. Or … there's something else. It's a bald fact that no one on this planet of ours has ever come back to tell us where they've been and if they ever did – how could they prove it? Nope – we are all travelers on our still, for now, blue watery planet. Not a single one of us knows what has happened to those gazillions who have died or what will happen to us when we do stop breathing. When our heart stops beating. Human beings, such as we are, like to hope. And a hell of a lot of us likes to seek; to find out what's next in our lives.

Would I deliberately cause pain to the people who have spent part of their precious lives loving me? Caring about me? Do I want to hurt a spouse who cherishes me and shares my life, or a child who loves me more and in always changing ways as he or she grows to adulthood and beyond? Could I hurt the parent who gave me life, by throwing that gift back into her or his face?

Do I really want to choose not to find out what happens next in this life?? I sure as hell don't. I would never, ever take my own life.

I've heard it said that life can suck beyond the telling. How true. No one lives a perfect life. Life is decidedly not easy. Sometimes, for some, it's damn hard, over and over. But … there are those times, be they great or small, when life is glorious.

So, I've gone through a medicine cabinet's amount of meds for anxiety and depression from Buspar to Zoloft, to Effexor, to Paxil, to Wellbutrin to Cymbalta to Prozac. Each of them worked for a little while. Since my depression stems from chronic pain and the inevitability of my illnesses, I try to hold onto my sense of humor. I try to accept my problems and difficulties and try to see things in a different light, to put things in perspective. I know that there are many people whose lives are harder than mine. There are people, who have lives of utter hardship, yet they persevere and they prevail. A friend mentioned the poet e. e. cummings today. I like his poems. At first, I liked them because they are so quirky. He's the poet who didn't use much capitalization or what is widely thought of as correct punctuation and spacing. Later, I settled down to actually read more and more of his poems. I hadn't known for many years that he has written such lovely and powerful erotic poetry. I know I wasn't mature enough to understand those particular poems until I reached a certain age. My favorite of any of his works is a poem called,

i thank you god for this most amazing.

This is it:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

 

What I will hold onto is the hope that tomorrow will be a glorious day and so will the days after it. I have hope. Without it, I might as well be dead.

I'm just sayin'.