Friday, March 25, 2005
Dancing With The Pain
I can't believe they kept my blog open for me. I've not said anything in a while.
Terry Schiavo. Her husband should be prosecuted, and it would be nice if a camera was kept on her, let these dorks see what starving to death is all about. It's not fun, it's not painless, and I believe the United States Supreme Court should have their food cut off, too. We need some new judges who don't think it's their job to legislate. John Stewart made more sense on this issue than anyone else. Scary how often he's doing that.
My own Dad is probably going to live. He really is the toughest human I've ever seen. He's fighting now to get his brain back from that last stroke. Lucidity and comprehension are items for him to capture and retain for brief periods. He doesn't understand that he keeps aspirating food when he tries to eat. He tore the feeding tube out of his nose, and confiscated the one the nurses tried to replace it with, threw it on the floor. Now he's trying to get me to smuggle in Sonic Double Cheeseburgers with Mayo and Onions only. He's still really sick, but considering he was almost expected to die last week, he's in great shape. He even lied to a nurse about my name, and grinned at me to let me know he was playing.
You know those people who say pets are an important source of healing? Believe it. Dad alternates between remembering I'm his son and thinking I'm either a doctor or some weird little dude that comes in his room, falls asleep for an hour, then wakes up and talks to him for another hour. He has yet to forget Basher, my dog. I can't be jealous of the dog. As I was typing this, he came wandering in from sitting out under the nearly full moon, bumped my elbow to demand he be petted and his chest scratched, then rested his head on my thigh briefly, and headed for his bed.
The rest of life is just...being what it is. A little business here and there, time online doing mail and updating people on Dad. I finally found a plumber. After the hurricanes, roofers and plumbers were in such hot demand, your wait time ranged from one to three months. Know what this means? I get to take a BATH, not a shower! Yeah, yeah, showers are better for you, and I'll usually do that...but to just SOAK in HOT FREAKIN' WATER for an hour or so, reach down with a brush and scrub my little toesies...ah, BLISS! I may float some rose-scented candles around, maybe some relaxing music.
Leaving the hospital the other day, I got approached by that which we all fear: the NUTCASE. Guy with Alice Cooper length black hair, extremely greasy, wearing a brightly colored tie over his bare belly, a massive Hawaiian shirt he's unable to button over his gut, and a pair of cargo shorts whose construction is truly amazing, some odd-looking sandals. First he bummed two cigarettes. Then he began telling me how fat I am, and which doctor can help me get thinned down like he is. She must be a hypnotherapist, because this boy was my height and outweighed me by a good 70 pounds. He told me how to be declared insane, but not far enough gone to put away, and how I could collect disability for that, and get by with some criminal activity. I finally excused myself and walked into the rain just to get away from him.
Not much here, sadly, but I'll try to do better.
Love y'all.
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