The Change of Life

The tears you stop, the rest you bring,
My evening friend with your crystal glass.
My cobwebbed womb a withered thing,
The tears you stop, the rest you bring.
Through this time each woman does pass,
The small pink pill saves my ass.
The tears you stop, the rest you bring
My evening friend with your crystal glass

I hope this is a Triolet, it’s my attempt anyway.

Streams of Profanity

Over here runs the creek muddy with confusing thoughts, anger, and depression. The waters churn over rocks called bipolar, OCD and anxiety. Navigation is nearly impossible. Small pockets of calm rest just beyond reach. Other’s have named this creek for me. It is called Shit Creek.

Just there, barely flowing, is a small stream. Just a trickle really of what it once was, the cool stream of hopes. Dammed up now by progress. The water is mostly red and viscous. Oh sure it still says it is happy to assist you onto your destination but you will have to be patient with its slow progress. Promising great destinations of financial freedom, or at least financial survival. I tip-toed in with hope. Along the way, I curse the course that claims to appreciate my time. Damn Red Tape Dam.

From behind, you can hear the wild rushing river threatening. Picking up debris along its mighty route. Deadlines, debt, health, obligations, and relationships litter the rushing waters. It’s always back there getting closer. You can not escape the ever approaching path of Sucking River.

OCD Part Two

 

Wound healing powder by Johnson and Johnson works pretty well for wounds that can’t be stitched but won’t stop bleeding. Trouble is I can’t seem to find my supply. Sweat is pouring off my brow and I have a rib cramp blooming on my side as I try to reach into the depths of my medicine cabinet. The cabinet takes up two shelves in my kitchen cupboard, it is deep and loaded with bottles, syringes, test strips, gauze, vitamins, band-aids, and assorted medical must-haves. Meanwhile, my husband sits softly crying at the table applying pressure to his wound. Ahh ha! Found it!

The following is a warning for those weak of heart or stomach: graphic blood details coming up.

My husband lives with OCD, Anxiety, Severe Depression, Bi-Polar II, Agoraphobia, and PTSD. Right now his anxiety is ramping up his OCD causing him to pick his skin until he bleeds. His arms are covered in constellations of scabs – some are oozing, some are scabs, and some are actively bleeding. He picks with such aggression that on six occasions he has opened  tiny blood vessels which pump blood out in alarming quantities.

A close look with my magnified reading glasses reveals the source. A perfectly round yet small as a pin-head vessel shows itself with a slow eruption of blood in sync with a heart beat. I know from experience it needs advanced attention. I hope the powder will work. The ER doc said to try it before we made another visit to his domain, it will be a lot cheaper.

In minutes the bleeding stops, clotted by the magic powder. I’m relieved that we do not have to make a trip to urgent care. He says it burns, I reassure him that the directions say it might burn and remind him that stitches really really sting.

I cover his arms in tube socks adapted for just this purpose. His crying has stopped, he is full of remorse. He hates himself right now. The balance beam has been set up for the day. We both will try not to fall off.

OCD

Hazy daylight filters unhurried over the sodden sheets of my bed. Another sultry day promised by the fogged window. I sit up to drag the damp ends of my hair from the creases of my neck. Free from the muffling pillow I hear his crying. Again.

The need to pee stops me from attending to him quickly. I am not worried about this so much now because it is familiar. I know what’s waiting for me. I linger a bit while washing my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. I look tired. I make a few practice faces trying to find the sparkle in my eyes that tells me I am me. The creaking floor snaps me out of trying on faces, he is on the move.

We meet up in the living room that separates our bedrooms. His face is red.

Yawning, I ask, “What’s wrong? Didn’t you sleep well?”

He lifts his arm and I am less shocked than grossed out by the amount of blood. Blood is dripping, staining the already weathered pine floors. I think about how hard it is to clean blood stains from this floor before I think about cleaning his arm.

“What the hell?” I sound  mad to my own ears.

Moving quickly across the room, I embrace him, standing on my tip-toes to kiss his teary face. My husband of thirty-five years looks sad and ashamed. He has done this to himself. Again.

My Life In Lists

 

This post was written by my husband…

My Life in Lists
A biographical letter to my friends and family that turned into something else.

An attempt to put on paper many of my thoughts about me.
Feeling unworthy is a recurring theme. My parents helped me to understand that my worth came from my accomplishments or lack there of. I began work at an early age. My father knew that I would not be college material when I was but seven. I lacked the passion to prove him wrong. I became my work. When I worked hard and did well my parents were content if not proud. When I failed my parents withdrew from me.
I grew older. My parents were no longer central. But my early training ran deep.
I measure my life in accomplishments. If I want to assure myself that I am still relevant and need to find some self-worth, I list the accomplishments of my prime…
30 years working in the paper industry
Raising three daughters
Softball, basketball, weight lifting, running, coaching
Recalled feelings from my prime consist mostly of pride, anxiety, anger, fear, and contentment. It was the best time of my life.
I became a person with high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and diabetes when I was 40 years old.
I ran and played sports and I worked hard.
I loved my children and my wife. I loved my dogs.
I ran 5K’s with my oldest daughter. My form wasn’t pretty, but I was swept up in emotions every time I saw my beautiful daughter flying by with such grace.
While putting up a fence with my son-in- law a major life event happened. I got sick with Rhabdomyolysis an extreme form of heat stroke. I was in acute kidney failure. I spent 4 days in the hospital. A week later I was re-admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure, while still in the hospital I had a heart attack. Two stents were put into an artery in my heart.
Eventually, I had to stop working.
I felt worthless.
I became the kind of person I had never admired: retired early with disability.
I searched for productivity and self-worth and eventually found it in wood working. I collected the tools of the trade and began making useful things in my garage. People were proud of me. I was proud of myself.
I had another heart attack. Another stent.
I am a person with coronary artery disease, severe depression with anxiety, latent autoimmune diabetes of the adult, chronic congestive heart failure, neuropathy, memory loss, high triglycerides, kidney damage, high blood pressure and little self-worth. I think about these things every single day.
One day while driving I could not find my way home.
I have forgotten what kind of vehicle I drive.
Sometimes written words do not make any sense to me.
I have felt hopeless.
I am really angry.
I dwell on all the wrongs.
I keep thinking if I eat right, exercise, take my medications I will get better. I am very frustrated when I don’t get better.
I know other people are worse off than me. But my glass is half empty.
I can no longer do wood working. I also had to sell my precious tools. My medical bills are mounting.
I had another stent placed for a 95% blocked artery.
I am now a soap maker. I like it. It is not tiring. I can obsess over it with little disturbance to others. People are proud of me and my soaps.
People who help me get up in the mornings:
My wife. I appreciate my wife and all she does for me and for putting up with me
through all of this. It is not what I had planned.
Katherine. Always encouraging, and knowledgable. Willing to drop everything to come
help.
Hannah. The voice of reason and my rock. She treats me the same as ever, not like the
unworthy person I think I am.
Claire. The sunshine on my cloudiest days.
Jeff. His tireless listening when I complain about all my ailments. Putting up with me
saying “when I came down with the Rhabdo.”
Ben. He has made it possible to enjoy the outdoors inviting me on hunting expeditions. He checks on me often and even carries extra medicine for me in his pack.
Ron. He is always there with kind words, a kind card or note or just a good laugh and a pat on the back.
Mark and Angie. They both suffer chronic health issues of their own but always find time for me in their thoughts and prayers.
I love my dogs, they offer unconditional love every minute of every day.
I know what it feels like to be humbled by emotions that are good. My three daughters are instant sources of pride and happy feelings. They are the best thing I have ever done.
My glass is half empty but I strive to see it as half full. I pray to overcome the shadow of depression that hangs over everything. I pray to accept what is.
My doctor told me that I have a multi-faceted disease process. There is no cure, but there is slowing it down. I think I finally get this. It will never go away.
I will never run another race with my daughter. The sadness threatens to over take me.
I am finding a new life, a new way to accept myself, and a new way to value the people and things I have in this life. I want to be done with anger.
I go to bed at night and wonder if I will wake up in the morning.
My grandchildren bring me such peace and joy. But there is such profound sadness too. Will I see them all grow up? Does everyone think this? Does everyone find themselves in tears almost daily thinking about all that they might miss?
My pain also rises when I think of my wife. I feel such despair for putting her through all of this. She did not deserve this.
I will have good days and bad. Everyone does. Right?

Fish Night

Fish Night

Rosemary and that other smell drift by his nose. His occasional forehead wrinkle warns me before he even utters the words, “Fish night?” My stomach twists and happiness fizzles. Why is he always disappointed on fish night? The agreed upon weekly dinner formula is three fish, one beef, one chicken, one vegetarian and one “other.”

I collect tantalizing fish recipes online. Cook-books line the shelf, dog-eared to pages with fancy fish. The fish market man greets me by name offering yet another recipe card featuring fish. The spice rack in my pantry boasts purple basil, funugreek, and a special curry blend. Experiments in olive oil infusions add “sciencey” flair to my kitchen counter. Good food, bene-factions of love to family and friends. Table lingering their gift. Like Napoleon Dynamite I offer a “delicious bass” as a token of my undying affection.

His idea of a fish supper involves batter and grease, preferably with fries and hush puppies. He confesses thoughts of food occupy better than 50% of his brain time. It used to be sex, but now his mantra goes something like this: Food, sex, food, family, food, dogs, food, work, food. Given a choice he will fill the pantry with white rice and pasta and the freezer with bacon and sausage. Fish wrapped in bacon stuffed with sausage served on a bed of rice with lots of butter irons out any wrinkle on his brow.

As newlyweds we were a perfect food match. I delighted in his savoring the prepared meals. He aimed to compliment, I aimed to please. No longer newlyweds, time marched on.

He tries. I am disappointed.

I like it. He does not.

He had a heart attack. I did not.

I am compliant. He is not.

We both eat the fish.

Latent autoimmune diabetes of the adult, type 1.5, has ravaged his heart, liver, kidneys, eyes and feet. He is 54. The dinner formula is an agreement of strangers – us, a doctor and a dietitian. They desire to keep him healthy, my desire is more complicated. Three nights is more than four nights on a calendar. Three fish nights keep his heart healthy, but it breaks mine. Three nights is a lot…for both of us.

Change What You Are Looking For

I am a devotee of signs. Sometimes the sign is revealed in the typical fashion of letters and words on a placard. Cosmic signs are mostly what I subscribe to. I have been lucky enough to see them at various crossroads pointing me in the way I should go. On occasion the signs appear as confirmation of decisions already made. Largely, the signs bring with them simple comfort and nothing more. I confess to looking for endorsement signs only. If there is no yay sign, I pursue the hunt.

I have felt suspended in my life of late. I am neither moving forward nor backward. My signs have abandoned me for the moment I think. I am a grandmother who is just now trying to cut the mothering apron strings. The grandmother role came easily to me, but the mother role to grown women is confounding. To offer advice or not to offer advice is indeed the question. I am damned either way. My post raising children life is self interrupted by poor judgement on the phone and by proximity to my children. I want to have my life while maintaining a healthy connection to my children. They wobble between needing my help and blessed independence. We have had a delayed mother child fly be free I will give you roots stage in our relationship. Limbo is not limited to this changing tide however.

My husband of 34 years is unwell. Forced into early retirement.  We have sold our home and are living in an RV. The last eight months have seemed like some long Salvador Dali vacation. Guilt creeps quietly through our devotion to health. Dreams of retirement and traveling have become reality too soon. This new freedom should be enjoyed, but our time together is shadowed by mortality. I have some traitorous thoughts, I’m not sick; I could be working; I want my house back. Yet I know we are a unit, he needs me and I need him. Nothing is as it seems and nothing is rightly placed. I feel I am on a path with no end because I don’t know where I am going.

Could I have a sign please? Nothing echoes from my beloved elements. Is that my answer? No peace for this season of life.

Yesterday, I heard the tide and the moon phase were just right for finding the coveted large whelk and conch shells gifted by the sea. I have combed the beaches for these prizes since we began our camping odyssey. Frustrations mounted each time I saw another striding back from the beach, buckets laden with fossilized beauties. My husband went with me on my trek this time. We walked for more than an hour; we were empty-handed. And then…my husband said, “Maybe we should change what we are looking for.” A moment later he held up a lovely bit of sea glass.

A mere day has passed since our sea glass moment. I cannot get his simple statement out of my overworked mind. I recognize it and embrace it fully as only a sign dogmatist can! Looking for a thing to happen in a prescribed finite way has kept me pinned down; stalled by my own seeking. How many signs have I walked right by while looking for something else? Looking for, is out. Looking at, is in. I hope. Maybe. Could I have just one small sign?

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