Huh? PART 2

After what felt like hours of listening to Willow (my Mother) talk about what seemed to nothing but gibberish regarding her past experiences with “Satan’s Angels” (this is what she calls doctors and/or nurses), she finally started to get on a page that I could somewhat begin to read with clarity.

“Remember when you lived down south and I got the Shingles that weekend when I came down to visit you?”

“Yes, how could I ever forget that? That was awful – forever…”

And it was awful forever:
Willow came down with the Shingles Virus in her left eye while she was staying with me down south, over ten years ago. In her case, she had a delayed reactivation of the anti-bodies or something and basically in a nutshell: continues to live in chronic and severe optic nerve pain (which is supposedly horrific pain) from day to day.

“Well….at first, the docs had me on Vicodin for the pain; but when I went in for a checkup with my regular doctor when I came back up home, he said they had me on the wrong meds – and he put me on something for actual nerve pain instead, which worked like a charm…”

It was an interesting story, but my tooth was killing me and I could hardly concentrate on anything but my own chronic pain at the moment. Finally, she turned up the lamp that she keeps on the table to the left of her recliner and stared digging around for something.

“Well, that’s great Mom, that they figured out the issue – I had forgotten about all that but yeah – I remember how miserable you were that weekend…and I didn’t see you for a while after that, did I?”

It is occurring to me as speak these words that the weekend she came down with the Shingles was the last time I saw her before my traumatic injury and near-fatal experience that left me hospitalized for a year plus; she left with my daughter that day, and she and I had planned on her keeping Boo for a few weeks – she knew something was very wrong with my situation. She finally stops the shuffling and hands me a bottle of pills.

“These are the same a s what the y gave me for the nerve pain in my eye, honey…it’ll probably at least ease some of that nerve pain in your mouth…try it out, here”

She shoves the bottle into my hand and turns down the light again, sitting back in her chair as if her work is done.
And let me tell you: the stuff worked like a charm…


“How are you feeling?”
Her eyelids slowly peeled themselves open against the sandpaper that seemingly held them closed; the room began to swim slightly, so she closed them again to stop the ocean of nausea that threatened to consume her if she tried to respond to her husband’s question.
“Don’t try to sit up,” he placed his oversized hand gently on her chest to ease her body backwards again; “You’re hurt pretty bad, Babe…”
The tears came then, despite her efforts to stop them; and she began to sob loudly in her husband’s lap. He calmly lulled her crying and soothed her with repeated pats gently to her back, strokes to her hair…words to her heart.
“It’s okay, I’m sorry….I’m so sorry, it’s okay, it’s okay…”
She cried out of sheer disgust and disbelief and disdain; her tears did not come from the numbed out physical injuries, whatever they may be this time, she wasn’t yet sure; she cried because of the mind-fuck life that she had built for herself with this crazed man-thing.
After a few moments of mental processing and crying, she again sat forward and successfully fought off the waves of nausea against the motion.
“I’m fine, I’m okay…” She wiped at her bloody, snotty face to clear her hair from the way; “Can I please clean up?”
Her husband looked down at her with a sad face, a truly sad face…she stared into his dark blue eyes and sought out a human being somewhere in the vast coldness within. Her heart began to thump heavily inside of her ribcage again as his calm voice spoke to her.
“Of course you can…do you need any help?” His huge frame shifted slightly beneath her tiny one, as he began to jump up in action to her request.
The woman thought briefly about this question before saying,
“Maybe you can pour me a bath?”
With that, her husband lifted her broken body off of his lap and placed her carefully down again after he stood up to go run her bathwater. She lay there in silence, in darkness; afraid to make her way into the bathroom where she would have no choice other to see her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly feel her own body these days; the numbness that her inner-survivor had cultivated and learned to maintain made feeling her physical injuries rather difficult anymore. She knew instinctively, however, that she was in bad shape…The Ripper only babied her when he feared her death.