BAD HAIKU OF JANUARY, 2016, DEATH STALKS US

Winter tolls death knell
No weeping at a grave site
Bansidhe screams silent

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I mourn the passing of my dearest uncle Michael. My grandparents and 3 teenagers raised me. When I came home from the hospital as a new baby, Mike was 14, Bob was 13, and Annie was 10.  I was raised by my grandparents and by a tribe of teenagers. They were all very good to me, but I was especially close to Mike. His loss has left a huge, gaping wound in my damaged, grinch heart.

Oddly enough, we both had our first heart attacks at the same, young age, and had subsequent heart surgeries and grafts in the exact same places on the exact same vessels. Along with the bad heart, he and I also shared other strange medical conditions and ailments. There is a definite genetic link in our bad hearts, and doubtless the other health issues, too. I am beginning to think these are not all different diseases or conditions, but are actually symptoms of one disease.

There is something really odd and strange about his heart attack, and please bear with me while I relate it. Mike and his brother, Bob, were on a winter fishing trip at Kentucky Lake. It was cold, and they were out on the lake in a boat. Somehow, they managed to tip the boat over and both of them went into the water. Naturally, neither of them were wearing life vests. Bob was able to cling onto the side of the boat, but Mike surfaced underneath it...he told me he had tried to float and to stay calm, but I suppose the cold and the shock got to him; he slipped underwater and didn't re-surface. Fortunately, someone had witnessed this happen and was able to call 911 and get a rescue team there as soon as possible.

By the time rescue arrived he had been underwater for 20 minutes. In his case, the near freezing water actually helped him. They were able to revive him. He went directly to intensive care via helicopter. The next day, a doctor came to see him to tell him he had fluid in his lungs and needed a heart operation. His reply was, "No shit, asshole, I just drowned. Of course my lungs are gonna be full of fluid!" That's my Mike--never pulled any punches.

The doctor countered, "Nooooo...your lungs are not full of lake water, they are full because your heart is not pumping correctly. You have extensive blockages in all your major coronary vessels. Mike was able to get out one word, which was "Bullshit," and then the first heart attack struck. He was whisked away into heart surgery where they did a quadruple bypass that very day. Afterward they would not release him to go home alone to his own home--he had to be discharged where someone would be there to care for him, so he went to my mother's house to stay. At that time she was probably more sick than he was, as she was in the process of dying of COPD and emphysema. At the time I was living in Clayton and would check on them both nearly every day.

He had to stop working as an electrician, which is often quite physically demanding, and put in a claim for disability. He was also able to draw a disability check from the union, so he was not that bad off. He was still making good money, as far as disability goes. Of course it was nowhere near what he made as an electrician, but now he had no travel or other work-related expenses. He had worked like a dog his whole life and had amassed quite a tidy sum in annuities for his retirement, which had yet to be touched at the time of his death.  His wife, whom he had not seen in 40 years will reap that benefit. She is a greedy bitch. (I never pull any punches either.) She never HAD to work a day in her life, but unbeknownst to him had had a full time job for the last 20 years and had been hiding that knowledge from him. He continued to send her half of his check the entire time he was alive. I believe the IRS will be informed, and I will stand by and wait as the axe falls across the correct neck.

Now here's what really gets me. There will be no funeral. He wanted to cremated and have his ashes poured into Kentucky Lake, where he "died" the first time. He believed, as I do, that you die when you're supposed to die. If you're brought back, you are essentially in a living hell on Earth for the remaining time spent alive.  My uncle Martin felt the same way. We all arrived at this conclusion at different times, but realized we were on the same page when I happened to mention one day that my life has been nothing but turmoil and a roiling morass of pain and anguish of one sort or another since the day I was brought back from death. As was Michael's life, As was Martin's life. So, by Mike's thinking, he is going back to his watery grave, where he should have stayed when he was *dead* the first time.

Another twist to the knife in my ribs: There will be no memorial service for him for our remaining family which consists of me (technically his niece, but I have the pride of place as sister because we grew up together in the same household, in the same generation), his brother Bob, and a skillion first cousins and then the children of the cousins. There are hundreds upon hundreds of union people who knew him and respected him, and many who just respect the family name. We are considered "big wigs" as far as the union is considered.

In summation, I think it is total horseshit that no one cares enough to organize some kind of a memorial service. We NEED a memorial because it helps the grieving process. I can't do it because I am extremely ill. I could make it there, more than likely, but would need at least a day to recover from the drive there, then again for the drive back.

The year 2015 was not a good one for me, health-wise. I'm dying and I know it. Every day I get just a little bit weaker, a little more dependent. I am quite literally wasting away. I have lost enough weight to make up another entire person. My muscles are totally gone -- I have little to no musculature at all on my body. I am merely a skeleton covered by a lot of loose skin. I have reached "dying weight." So, I'm too damned sick to drive up to St. Louis and throw together a memorial, and it's something I just can't do over the phone. Even if it is just a get together, or a potluck meal at someone's house (and there are plenty of big houses among the cousins), it would be better than nothing.

I am disappointed in the rest of my asshole family. Ashamed, even. I see their true colors. I see how they are. How dare they care so little for something so important? Do they have so little regard for their elders, so little pride in their own family? These same people would not have hesitated to call on me, Mike & Bob if they needed something, or if we had something they wanted, or think nothing of just taking that something without even asking. That shit ends today. New will in progress.

                               

GOOD GRIEF!

It occurred to me today that I am grieving. I read a quote that someone had posted and here it is: "The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not 'get over' the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but, you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to." -- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler

I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.

I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.

You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:

Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound. 

Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.

I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.

OWW MY SCREAMY BOOBS, ROUND 3

This morning bright and early I toddled off to Dr. Turban-wearer's office. I waited in the waiting room. I waited in the exam room. When he finally got to me he said straight away, "I am sending you back to your referring physician and releasing you. There is nothing I can do for you."

"Releasing me? After only one visit and only one drug?" I pleaded.  No response. "WTF is the matter with you?"

"There is nothing I can do to help you." He looked at the floor.

"So you're just giving up? You're not even going to try? What about the drugs I'm on now? Where am I supposed to get those? You know perfectly well a primary won't prescribe the narcotics I've been taking! What about my panic attacks? Where am I supposed to get Ativan, without which I will soon be hospital-bound?"

Without looking at me even once, he launched into preaching mode, "This is a pain you are just going to have to learn to live with. You have too many things wrong with you. Your heart, your back, your various injuries, your neuro-muscular issues...all of these are sources of pain and there is nothing I can do that will make it better. We all have to live with pain. For instance right now I have a headache and my hip hurts. See how I am standing?"

"I don't give a shit about your headache or your fucking hip. Take some aspirin and go see your referring physician."  I left.

I got into my car and sat in the parking lot for about 15 minutes just weeping. I have 24 days to find a drug source or I'm up shit creek. This pain is unendurable. Even with drugs it is barely manageable. I can't just *learn to live with it* since it affects every aspect of my life. It affects how I get out of bed, how I put on clothes, how I comb my hair, what I eat and how I eat it. Goddammit I can't even take a shower since each bead of water that falls on my skin feels like a dagger.

Sheer desperation has made me consider having mastectomies, wondering if I actually cut off my screamy boobs if they'll stop being so urgently screamy. On the other hand, if it's the nerve that is damaged, the nerve will still be there, and so will the pain. I can't win.

Suddenly it all becomes clear, and I understand it completely. This my friends, is exactly how heroin addicts get made -- out of sheer desperation.

Shaking in my Imaginary Boots

I'm afraid.  Constantly.  Like shaking in my boots afraid (I can't get my boots on since my legs are too swollen). I have mostly resigned myself to pain. Unless I can totally sedate myself the pain never goes away - not with the measly pills I get.  It has been a whole year and I'm not any better. The only thing that IS going to lessen is the amount and type of pills I get.

What I haven't resigned myself to is the lack of breath that goes along with the pain.  For instance, walk to the car = chest pain + gasping for breath + leg pain, and all this combined = huge fear.

I am going to try to scrape some poop out of the yard before it gets too hot. I have been told to not go outside when the temp is 80 or above. Apparently heat puts added stress on my tiny black grinch heart. So as soon as it gets light outside, I'll be out there with my shovel and rake. I pretend they are diamonds and I'm prospecting. (I have to pretend SOMETHING or this little yard would overflow in no time.

I try to plan to do one thing a day.  It's hell when that one thing involves crap.  Maybe someday I'll work up to two things.