I had this idea of blogging (complaining) my physical problems. Don't quite know how. This blog has been sparse. I don't know how to make the right words to make me seen. Don't really want to be seen. It's not really about me. I have had about enough of me. But what I see in myself is a story. A representation of many who cannot speak. And while some might perceive my notes as all-about-me, they are not. I just happen to know my story better. Sure, it's a way to deal with my own problems. But if I can, in some way, help some one else deal with their pain, or the pains of their loved one, then I have succeeded. Sometimes it is best to let the language pour out all at once. It may look like a mess, but it is as raw as the truth of pain. Here is some such poured out pain: *, I am sorry, I guess I was not clear, too brief, too implied (misunderstood). I've had a lifetime of my own physical problems. I suppose, that as these years have gone by I have reached a point of some sort of numb sarcastic laughter at myself...some kind of crazy-out-of-my-mind kind of laughter maybe. Through the years I have become so familiar with the pains that they have become my intimate friends. Sometimes I imagine I'm held in some cage and strapped into some medieval torture rack. So all that stuff comes out when talking to other bodily tortured people...because I am assuming they understand. I try to not talk about it to other, more healthy people, about my trouble. A number of times I've told of my pains to the wrong people. I have mentioned my troubles in the form of apology, which comes from guilt, which comes from the wish I could be of some use. The responses were sometimes snide, always judgmental, (I'm quoting real quotes) "You're just making it all up", "You're not really sick", You just want attention", "You have no faith", "You must have sinned", All these things I've told myself already...there are a few other[s] which I have forgotten, which means I must be learning to forgive. And so I was referring to *'s 'no clue' comment. I know that one. I don't know the particular torture rack he's in, nor yours. But I can assume the psychology going on: a problem that is harder to deal with than the actual physical problem. And so I'm harder enough on myself without someone else joining in. And so I see your sensitivity shouting out. I know your sensitivity. I want to strike out with mine too often...often at myself. Too many scars. I am so sorry. We must be gentle, and kind. Like when I had those, particularly kind, nurses turn me over in the hospital bed; taking their time; sometimes five minutes just to turn to the other side...with quiet voice, lots of pillows to hold you in place, all the wires and tubes set right, the lighting just right, a fan to keep you cool...and all the response you can give is a grunt.
Monday, July 23, 2012
What is the purpose of this Blog anyways?
I had this idea of blogging (complaining) my physical problems. Don't quite know how. This blog has been sparse. I don't know how to make the right words to make me seen. Don't really want to be seen. It's not really about me. I have had about enough of me. But what I see in myself is a story. A representation of many who cannot speak. And while some might perceive my notes as all-about-me, they are not. I just happen to know my story better. Sure, it's a way to deal with my own problems. But if I can, in some way, help some one else deal with their pain, or the pains of their loved one, then I have succeeded. Sometimes it is best to let the language pour out all at once. It may look like a mess, but it is as raw as the truth of pain. Here is some such poured out pain: *, I am sorry, I guess I was not clear, too brief, too implied (misunderstood). I've had a lifetime of my own physical problems. I suppose, that as these years have gone by I have reached a point of some sort of numb sarcastic laughter at myself...some kind of crazy-out-of-my-mind kind of laughter maybe. Through the years I have become so familiar with the pains that they have become my intimate friends. Sometimes I imagine I'm held in some cage and strapped into some medieval torture rack. So all that stuff comes out when talking to other bodily tortured people...because I am assuming they understand. I try to not talk about it to other, more healthy people, about my trouble. A number of times I've told of my pains to the wrong people. I have mentioned my troubles in the form of apology, which comes from guilt, which comes from the wish I could be of some use. The responses were sometimes snide, always judgmental, (I'm quoting real quotes) "You're just making it all up", "You're not really sick", You just want attention", "You have no faith", "You must have sinned", All these things I've told myself already...there are a few other[s] which I have forgotten, which means I must be learning to forgive. And so I was referring to *'s 'no clue' comment. I know that one. I don't know the particular torture rack he's in, nor yours. But I can assume the psychology going on: a problem that is harder to deal with than the actual physical problem. And so I'm harder enough on myself without someone else joining in. And so I see your sensitivity shouting out. I know your sensitivity. I want to strike out with mine too often...often at myself. Too many scars. I am so sorry. We must be gentle, and kind. Like when I had those, particularly kind, nurses turn me over in the hospital bed; taking their time; sometimes five minutes just to turn to the other side...with quiet voice, lots of pillows to hold you in place, all the wires and tubes set right, the lighting just right, a fan to keep you cool...and all the response you can give is a grunt.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Contrast
The artificial sooth of Dilaudid coats my mind in feelings of warmth and whisper and diversions; enough to carry away, for a little while, my intestines and left leg. And though giving in to these worrisome and addict-able cures of discomfort bring out the red flags, I will thank God for their invention. And then here I wait. In a moment the orders will be given and I will drink the milkshake understood as a contrast. Afterwards I will be placed in another picture-taking machine through which we will see what picture the contrast has painted; the path every meal follows and the curves both narrow and wide; and the obstructions sure to be uncovered.
The sunlight is shinning through for a moment here, only, on this place of the sick. I penciled this into a notebook, in an x-ray room, during an eight and a half hour follow-through (that means they followed the glowing liquid from my stomach all the way down to the place where you clench for roller coaster rides), (all that time and that's minus my Colon), February 16, 2009.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Morning Wake
It is little after three am. I woke with a wince and a groan and this body and leg and gut; they pelted me with pains. In a dash I turned on the light to search for a pill. Turned on the light and saw from the far reaches of my eye, my Rose, lying there next to me, faced to the light. I winced and groaned again, to myself. Darn it I woke her again. And at a time when waking her leaves her awake. She returns not to her sleep. And I. I will fade soon under the influence of this pill I took. I wince and groan at the unfairness. No not any unfairness attended to me. The unfairness to my wife, who I love, who I dreamt of all night, who I loved in the dreams I dreamt all night.
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