Sinking.


“Don’t go out anywhere tomorrow…it’s supposed to rain enough to flood up in the mountains all day, a storm’s comin’ down tomorrow, put off whatever you gotta do until Friday, Hon; we’re planning to stay in and hole up for the day, ourselves.”

Those were the words my mama said to me (the “we” referring to my stepdad and her) as we parted ways on Wednesday afternoon. A storm came down, alright.

Yesterday was the very first day since my mom was diagnosed with cancer that I actually let her be the whole day, thinking she was snuggled in a blanket at home, watching reruns of Bonanza…I got the call at 8pm last night, mom was being taken via ambulance from her house to the hospital; she was unresponsive and burning up. My stepdad thought she was sleeping all day (he likely slept in the TV room in his recliner most of the day as well, as he has been exhausted in every way by everything just as much as any of us)…I don’t know exactly how it all went down but the summary is that by the time her found her essentially unresponsive and incoherent, her fever had likely already caused brain damage, at 104 degrees.

When I arrived at the hospital and saw her, I was overcome with so many different feelings of dread and guilt and disbelief and pity and mercy and various others, too. I have never seen my mama anywhere near so ill, so lost and childlike, scared…I don’t think I have ever seen my mom scared like that before, nor even imagined that she was capable of such fearfulness. My mama has a combative spirit; she is a Taurus; she is the spazz drummer of the band, she is strong-willed and hard-headed…I’ve seen her scrap in the street, I’ve seen her drunk and high, I have seen her in the grips of schizophrenic delusions and paranoia, I have seen her through each and every one of her 6 joint replacement surgeries (and the subsequent recoveries, more notably)…but last night…

It was as if I walked to into a nightmare straight from the warped perceptions of my childhood subconscious; she was so hot to the touch; at one point, she was trying to leave the bed over and over. Once she somewhat came around the first time, she was very angry and completely confused. She couldn’t focus her eyes but she never blinked either; she just stared at the ceiling with her arms crossed, shivering and mumbling things I couldn’t make out. Finally, they had to give her Haldol because she was becoming so out of control in her fever’s rage; eventually they got her to sleep and her fever went down. But the aftermath of that shit has a long life and she hasn’t been able to swim back to the surface like she would have under better circumstances i.e. without the fever’s toll on her brain and the presence of terminal cancer, to name a couple. Upon her transfer to her own hospital however, her BP dropped suddenly and they still haven’t gotten it up without heavy medication. Since her arrival to the ICU, it has been one issue after another with her body and its ability to fight this off, not to mention, her inability to understand what is happening and in turn, the anger and fearfulness. They aren’t sure of the level of damage her brain has endured during the fever and the effects of the drugs they have given he, everything is really touch and go still, she is not well though, she barely hanging in, just barely.

The Sick and the Dying.

It’s been a really hard week; we buried another friend from childhood yesterday, after a long and painful fight we have all watched from the sidelines. He didn’t want to die, and never stopped saying so until the very end: an element that leaves a much more impossibly bitter taste to swallow in everyone’s mouth. In my experience thus far until his death last week, people usually get a sense of relief with the death of a loved one who has been suffering badly in life – but not this time. His absolute unwillingness to die makes it difficult to find that relief anywhere in this specific context. And, it feels really bad.

Jackson is sick; like, really sick with some despicable strain of pneumonia or something and has been hospitalized since last week. Jack saved my life once; he saw it all, while he was still a paramedic in the armpit of America, where I was almost killed by my ex-husband.

Jack is the underlying reason for any of what might resemble “recovery” in my own case. It is often somehow easy for me to forget from day to day: exactly how much I owe this man when it comes down to it. If circumstances had been shifted even slightly in regard to who they sent out in the ambulance to my crime scene, he would be totally absent from my world; in actuality – there would be no world for him to be absent from, because I would not have recovered as I have without Jackson.

The more I think about it, the more it becomes obvious that he truly adopted me on the day I almost lost my life, unknown to my near-dead brain at the time. And the afterwards; well all I can really say about “the afterwards” is that without that man there to assure and comfort and baby me like did (and does), I would have been so ruined by humanity that I would likely be in an asylum. There simply aren’t enough Gods to offer my prayers to when it comes to Jack’s recovery and homecoming. Had I opened my eyes as the maimed and Frankenstein-esque creature I had become to anyone other than Jackson in the exact way that I did, and if even the slightest thing played out differently, I easily could’ve slipped into sheer madness from it all.

In the spirit of rescue and recovery, please send any good energy to Jackson if you’re reading this.

The Cut Throat Club.

Jack, the EMT.

Cyclical.

Throughout so much of the apparent bullshit that goes on with each new sunrise of my cursed life, I’d like to share the fact that there are NOTHING but vastly reaching tentacles of even more bullshit that belong to the variants attached to that same fucking existence.
For even when things are on the “upswing” for me (which never consists of anything more than a few not-so-bad things happening), my heart is ever struggling to simply remain above the ring of that proverbial drain; I am not throwing a pity party – anyone who really knows me at all will have no choice but to agree with my longtime proclamation of purely bad karma…it IS NOT “perception” or a matter of any “law of attraction”; it is TRUTH.
1) When my health gets to a point in which I have any room to move freely, my car breaks down with some fucking random, yet very expensive issue, and I get stuck until I become ill again;
2) When I become ill – nothing else matters besides getting better and it is always a fight that exhausts me to the point of near-submission;
3) By the time I “feel better”, I am so tired of fighting to feel better that I am at my own wit’s end with everything;
4) When I finally get my car repaired (a solution that attaches itself directly to MONEY), I run out of money and am again stuck until I get more income;
5) When I am sickly, it becomes all-too-often impossible to work for income;
6) When I get some income, it is already spent because I have been stagnant at home and have had to borrow from someone;
7) When I finally get back to feeling like I can possibly conquer even the simplest of steps in this horribly vicious cycle – my car breaks down again.

Granted, I am lucky to have people who help me, and my step dad loaned me his “spare” car; my own car is very close to being “repaired” once more (with the exception of brakes, which I was set out to pick up this morning in order for my nephew to change them today) – and of course there is no way in Hell that the Gods would allow things to go so smoothly for me, in my own fucking hell-hole life…my step dad’s spare won’t start this morning.

“Don’t freak out, I’ll pick you up and take you to the auto store to get your brakes…”

And nobody gets it…I don’t want a fucking ride to the fucking auto store to get the fucking brakes that I don’t even have the finances to buy right now!!! I don’t want anything from anyone who finds it funny when I can’t start the loaner car I’m forced to borrow because my own bread and butter has failed me once again!!! I am sick and fucking tired of the heavy weight I am dragging around by my ankle over the dread and anxiety of vehicular failure – and I cannot deal with AGAIN it today (with the car that I’m using while I have no car)!!!
I just want a single, fucking break!!! It never comes….NEVER.
The cycle of my existence is what is going to kill me eventually, not anything or anyone else. It will be the long-lived and suffered anxiousness and worry and dread that will finally stop my blackened heart. And to be honest, I can’t wait.

H-MRSA.

No, I can’t hold your newborn baby…or hug your elderly granddad…or let you borrow my shaving blade…no, it’s probably not the best idea to share my drinking glass, either…
No, I do not have AIDS or HIV, although it sometimes feels as if I might as well, as limiting as it can be to be attacked by the unseen “Necromancer” whenever I am again visited by him. I have no way of knowing when he will appear to visit me, I never see it coming ahead of time; the only inkling I ever have is that horrid taste in my nose and throat – but by then it’s undoubtedly too late to stop him from the imposition of another “outbreak”.
No…the assailant that stalks my every move is one that I never knew existed prior to my “traumatic injury” and subsequent recovery in hospital; I piqued his interest while I struggled for my life there; I have never been able to shake his presence since, he clings to my being like an amoeba now.
For his dark purpose, I have been given the role of “a carrier”, though his weaponry is not always communicable through me, only when he invades open wounds in my skin and others touch me, or when he covers my lungs with his necrotic ugliness and I cough it out at other people in turn. I didn’t see him here for a long, long time – he is a master of deception and assimilation; he hid so well in my tissue for so long that he made his way into the bloodstream eventually while he still had the opportunity, before the doctors even knew of his presence. He colonized in my lungs, built up a massive stronghold there…
I’ve never been able to ditch him, probably never will. He makes my Life miserable when he power trips with my health and well-being, when he refuses to allow my skin to heal over a simple scrape and instead infects me, anew. He’s in my face; my eyes, nose and ears…he’s in my lungs…he has become part of my existence since I was “recovered”…I hate him.

Necrotized.

It started off last Tuesday, when I suddenly felt as if a barbed string had been inserted all the way up my left nostril somehow and was continuously wriggling around; by the following day, my left eye and ear were also affected severely. Wednesday morning, I was noticing the appearance of a horrid and disgusting taste in my mouth that I couldn’t wash away no matter which methods I tried.
A sinus infection, I figured…
I went to the doctor and suggested that I have another sinus infection (I am plagued by these regularly) and asked if they would just give me a prescription. They cultured me for Strep, and listened to my lungs before insisting that despite the fact that my lungs sounded “great”, I get a chest x-ray done – so I did. They sent me home with a dose of anti-biotic before calling me back the following day to inform me that they had been duped by my lungs during listening – and that I did, indeed, have pneumonia, after all. Lovely.
I have written before about being a carrier for MRSA, a leftover element of my ex-husband’s attempt on my life that haunts me endlessly; well, this is a good example of its lingering power and control over what would otherwise be an easily treated issue such as a sinus infection.
Due to my already weakened immune system (a direct result of the H-MRSA), and the colonization of this strain that I have unknowingly allowed to occur in my lungs during the past few months during the tax season crunch, etc. – and in combination with the poor status of my teeth, I have allowed myself to incubate full-blown necrotizing pneumonia again. I have only had this type of pneumonia two other times in the past, and both times brought on epic struggles between me and my immune system.
I will win again, I have no doubt…but wow…it is always quite humbling to be tossed on my ass once again by the invisible assailant known as H-MRSA.