Monday, July 30, 2012

Eternal Oblivion

It might be my rabbit that is subconsciously fueling all this mess.  He died.  I fed him.  Sometimes.  I paid attention to him.  Once in a while.  And one day, he died.  Dead, dead, dead.  My reaction was far out of proportion to the situation.  The situation was a 9-year-old child with a dead rabbit she rarely paid attention to.  My reaction was that of a 9-year-old child whose mother just died.   Interestingly, as an adult, I've mostly forgotten all about it. 

Until my mom mentioned it to me the other day.  She and I were talking on the phone.  I actually told her about my …. well …. I’m not even sure what to call it.  Ruminations of death?  Death panic?  Death anxiety?  Paralyzing, incapacitating fear of death?  I don’t know.   But I told her about it.  I am not sure why.

I explained it as best I could before my nerve ran out.  When she asked how long it had been going on.  I told her 7 or 8 months.  She was shocked.  I didn’t understand why at first.  But, apparently, 7 or 8 months is a long time to keep silent about things that are rapidly chipping away at your sanity.   But she kept talking.  So I asked her to stop. 

“So, when does it happen?”

“Okay mom.  You need to stop now.”

“But, what exactly bothers you about it?”

“Mom.  Please.  I can’t talk about this anymore.”

“Yeah, but is it the actual act of dying or is it---“

“MOM! Please STOP!”

Somewhere in there, she mentioned my rabbit.  And then I remembered.  It was the rabbit.  The first thought I had when I saw the little pink plus sign on my pee stick.  “How the hell am I going to keep a child alive if I couldn’t even keep a rabbit alive?!”

Momma says she fed it.  That it was not my fault that it died.  She fed it when I did not.  She held it when I didn’t.  I did not starve or ignore my rabbit to death.   Didn’t matter.  Doesn’t matter.  Not really.  The rabbit died.  It made a permanent dent in my gut.  Yet, I’d moved it out of my consciousness. 

And then I remembered another something.  Fairly strange.  I won’t say it was a “near-death experience.”  There was no spiritual or existential moment.  No light.  No voices.  No god or angels or a feeling of peace….. or any feelings at all.  It is just an event that almost resulted in my death.  I was not conscious, and so I felt no pain or fear.  There was no dream state.  No thought or feeling.  No nothing.  I simply became conscious again 3 days later.  I knew nothing except what I have been told.  I have no memories from the moment I became unconscious to the moment I woke.   

That was 17 years ago.  I just realized the other day that in 17 years, I have never known or asked for the whole story.  Nope.  Not once.  Both my mother and my husband were there.  My husband saved my life, as a matter of fact.  My life and that of the son who was in my belly at the time.  I’ve heard the few little anecdotes he and my mom have told over the years.  But that’s really it.  I’ve never asked the whole story, top to bottom, details, narration, etc.  I’ve never asked…. And it never even crossed my mind to ask.  Who does that?! 

We were all together for lunch over the weekend when they started talking about it, my mom and my husband.  And suddenly, they were adding details I’d never heard before.  They talked about how violent it was.  How physical.  And frightening.  There was blood and vomit and foaming at the mouth, screaming and grunting and biting my tongue.  A doctor almost got punched in the face.  I was apparently about 10 seconds from falling off of a hospital bed and onto the floor, pregnant belly side down. 

I have never heard these things.  And I have never asked.  In 17 years.  Never asked.  Never felt the need to know.  But it shocked me.  A lot.  To hear them talking.  

And I thought to myself, I could have died that day.  Easily.  I was minutes away.  But, away from what?  Exactly?  I felt nothing.  I knew nothing.  I had no pain.  No fear.  No regrets.  No thoughts at all.  There was no time to say goodbye to anyone, to tell anyone how much I loved them, to say all the things I wanted to say and do all the things I wanted to do- No time for that. 

But if I had died that day.  At that moment.  Well.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but....

So what?

So what.

I find peace in that.  

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Monkey Sea

Little, little
stringless fiddle
teach my friendless funk to fly.
Curve my bow
whisper low
gimme crazy bells to try.

Crashy, clashy
trailer trashy
wontchoo lemme lick your ears?
Splatter muck
all in my truck
kick the gauntlet tossed with tears.

Whistle, whistle
gnaw your gristle
tell me, magic man, to speak.
Whip me lightly
fuck me nightly
punch me, rape me, call me freak.



Friday, July 27, 2012

She Certainly Does

I was taken on a Tuesday.  Mid September.  A magical time, when seasons kiss, dawning golds and yellows. Yet, autumn frost ever threatens to cage my memories.  I have a story to tell.
Trifextra Week Twenty-Six-
"give us a 33-word opening line to your book."

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Persona Non Grata

Dark time was his safe place.  When his thoughts leapt and swooped unruly, he counted the tickings until the cover of the blackest hours.   Wandering the night was a pleasure he indulged with the very same ardor as that of an alcoholic for his poison.   With the collar of his wool pea coat flipped in typical vagabond style, hands pocketed, eventide became his alone.  For exploring, spying, smelling his prey undercover.   Trespass was his sport of choice.   Within the 10 miles circling his deceptively urban cabin in the bushes, hidden from nonlookers and discounted by onlookers, there was no privacy he had not violated.  No window sat unchecked, no alley unwalked, no doorknob untouched by his probing.  He already knew well that those who dwell in the halls of folklore, the persona non grata, are the only ones who are truly free.  The ones immune to enslavement.  The skulking lords of the enslaved.

It was the exhaust of internal combustion mixed with a touch of carnal wickedness that lured him forth, keeping him long past moonrise, far from encroaching upon the clock of man.  Indeed, from within the shadows of amaurosis, the smell of night is the true secret to its nature. 

This night was no different.  He stepped out onto his porch and inhaled.  Heard the familiar whine from the warped board underneath the doormat.  The shush of frogs lasted but a second before they remembered his ritual, as if to say, “Oh yes.  It is he.  He bothers not.”

Carnal wilds.
Warped board. 
Frogs remembering.

All seemed to be in order this night, as any other.  But this night would not be as any other.  This night was chosen.  His chosen time.  His chosen body.  From dusk to pitch to dawn and over again, he had sensed his plan into being.  Mapped her route by the clicking of her heels.   Measured her frame by the strength of the wind she stirred passing.   Foretold her sinew by the weight of her voice, the speed of her words and the ones she accented.  She’d be a pistol, as his mother would’ve said.  Slight of build, yet her furor would give him a run for his money.   The sweet-smelling guile of a challenge made his dick hard.   It was time.

Trifecta lengthy challenge- (hey, I still followed the rules!)
"any style, any subject, that is between 333 and 3,333 words"


Sunday, July 22, 2012

On And On

Sweet face of transgression-
tales and preludes and sequels
mar her skinscape
with foibles of pure intention.
Inky fingers pan for gold
in gentler form-
For the strands and knots of sleep
hang idly by,
abiding the snatch
The gray creeps-
a song of denial center stage,
serving time in a grail a la carte.   
Chocolate eyes-
Oh, master of lies,
awaken to glare
through the holes of
reckless banter.
And shut again
on the flyaway tongue of
hope in a box,
on the Eve
of the ills of man.
Twirling Eve
upon the coals
of the ills of man. 
She scrubs the night,
brushes away the grit of the game,
licks the antivenin unmade,
swallows her tithe to the
slow-wave treasures in the dark. 
Dawning now behind the devil
is just another day
for the dirty girl laughing.
Another day
to flip her ruffles at the boys.
Another day
dancing with the dimple luring angels to their doom.
Another day
blowing fuses
in the machine.  

  dVerse Poetics-
I invite you to observe someone or something and describe what you see."

Friday, July 20, 2012

Once and Future Daughter

He is my sunshine.
tiny heart with mine.
Shakes my happy
fearless skies of gray.
Yet to show
how much I love him,
To her, I give 
my son’s shine away.

Trifextra Week Twenty-Five
"Forty-three years ago today, Neil Armstrong became the first person to ever walk on the moon.  In celebration of Moon Day we want you to write 33 words about someone who took a giant leap.  It can mean whatever you'd like, just make sure you write exactly 33 words."


Thursday, July 19, 2012

Me Too

I'm not a very sentimental girl.  Other than with my husband, I don't talk about "my feelings" a lot.  In non-blog life, that is ;-)

In real life, if you ever actually hear me complaining and bitching, it's not a hugely important issue.  

I avoid hugely emotional issues like the plague.  I check out.  Totally check out.  I get very, very quiet.  I don't want to be talked to.  About anything.  But especially the issue at hand.  At least until the acute phase is over.  Once I have let it sink in, I can either talk myself down, or I check out even further if it is something I just really cannot handle.  

It happened when my husband was diagnosed with MS.  I dealt with it in the acute phase.  When it first happened.  I went into mega-driven/manic Aimee mode.  Found out all I could about MS.  Went to all the doctor's appointments.  Held his hand.  Cried with him.  But then.  


I checked out.  For almost a whole year.  I numbed myself so emotionally that I truly did not care about anything.  My usually rabidly frugal self no longer cared.  Chris wanted to buy a new truck.  I would have otherwise been very hesitant about something like that.  I shrugged my shoulders and said "whatever."  Didn't care.  

I didn't want to talk to anyone.  I wanted no one to talk to me.  I wouldn't talk to my mom on the phone.  I didn't blog.  I was rarely on Facebook.  

Numb and mute.  Gone.  Totally absent.  

I didn't realize how bad it was until a couple of really "in my face" kind of things happened that snapped me out of it.  Today was yet another of those things.  

The past month or so has been kinda stressful.  Nothing huge, really.  Not each thing individually.  But all of them piling on top of each other kind of puts me squarely in the "go ahead and fucking kick me while I'm down whydoncha?" mindset.  

Chris is out of town for a couple of weeks teaching a class.  He's already beyond stressed because the Army is smoking crack.  I'm trying to do everything in my power to prop him up and keep him laughing.  Even if it involves shamelessly allowing him to sexually objectify me in lascivious ways. 
And then another thing happened last night.  And that was the last straw.  I was numb.  Woke up this morning.  Dealt with the acute phase.  Came to terms with realities, knowing I cannot call Chris and tell him this when there is nothing he can do about it.  Found out once again how amazing my baby boys are.  And laid down in my dark bedroom on my cool sheets and fluffy pillow.  And then my mom called.  

I was so close to not answering it.  I just needed to be alone.  Wanted to be alone.

Or so I thought. 

I answered it.  And we talked.  And I fell apart.  Just fell apart.  And that is when I found out how bad my stone cold reaction to emotional situations really is.   I vocalized it.  Put it in words.  All that I have written here.  I've never analyzed it before.  Never talked about the fact that I can't talk about things.  That I am afraid of fear.  That I go through extreme lengths to avoid showing emotions to anyone but my husband.  And so, as my mom, for the millionth time, talked me down off the ledge, I put it all into words. 

And her response?  "Yep..... yep..... yep....."  She is my mother.  She knows all of this and more.  She sees it when I struggle.  She hears it when I am silent.  She feels it when I don't want to.  

And then she said, "Yet you write about all of these things on your blogs.  Do you notice that?  You will talk about anything there.  All the things you won't talk about with anyone else.  You will blog about it.  I am so glad you have that."

Me too. 


Sunday, July 15, 2012

Death Summary

History of Present Condition:
Sam is a 42-year-old white male found down and unresponsive by his wife.  EMS was called.  They found the patient pulseless, apneic, unresponsive, in asystole.  The patient was intubated in the field by EMS.  He was treated with multiple rounds of epinephrine, atropine, as well as sodium bicarbonate and Narcan without any return of spontaneous circulation.  The patient has undergone approximately 30- 40 minutes of CPR/ACLS upon arrival here in the emergency department.  He has fixed, unresponsive, dilated pupils.  Silent precordium.  No audible heart tones.  No palpable central or peripheral pulses. Skin is cold, pale, dry, somewhat cyanotic.  Therefore, at the time documented on the patient's records, the patient was pronounced dead.  The code was called.  His family is apparently en route to the emergency department.  They will be notified at this time.  The patient's wife reports that he had gone out to dig post holes for a fence.  She had not seen him for a period of about an hour, went out to check on him to see why he had not come in for dinner, when she found him unresponsive.  According to the wife, he had not had any complaints of chest pain, difficulty breathing, or any other complaints of any recent illness prior to this episode.  He has otherwise been at his baseline health status.  

Cause of Death:  
Acute coronary syndrome.  

Time of Death:  
2135 hours.  

The patient's body will be released to his family. 

Prompt:  Magpie Tales 126

*Disclaimer- I wrote this.  This is fiction.  I have worked with medical documents for almost 10 years, so this is from my own knowledge.  I would never violate HIPAA or a patient's privacy for the sake of prose.  For reals, yo.  That's just fucked up.*

And the whole death thing?  Yeah, pure coincidence.  I swear my next post will have rainbows involved.  

Friday, July 13, 2012

For Granted

Her memories drifted while she watched him sleep.   Memories of curling into his lap, her head on his chest, watching reruns on Nick at Nite.  The pride she felt when her friends swooned over his deep-set eyes and 5 o’clock shadow.  Her college graduation, as he shed tears and said, “Your mother would be so happy.”

It was only three days ago that the words ‘palliative,’ ‘hospice,’ and ‘comfort measures only,’ had threatened to crumble her foundation.

“Do you have help?” Doctors asked. 

“… umm…. No…. it’s just me.  I’m a nurse.  … I…I… I’ll be fine.   My dad…. He just needs to be home…. just home…. “  It was the patois of the brokenhearted, heard only in the presence of those tasked with delivering such news as, “It seems your father has taken a turn for the worse.”

A turn for the worse.  Though, it had been a long time coming.  She dressed his wounds when surgery failed him.  She held his straw steady when drugs meant to cure failed him.  She knelt beside him when God failed him.  And when doctors failed him, she brought him home, to the only one he knew. 

Day before yesterday, she bathed him with a warm washcloth and told him the story of the time she ditched school in the 10th grade.  He smiled, and finished the story with his own memory of assuring the principal it would not happen again. 

Yesterday, she slipped her ear phones into his ears so that he could listen to Jefferson Airplane while sailing on the wind of his morphine drip. 

Today, she watched as the shadow of death, reeking and uninvited, scattered and floated away.  His chest rose in one final moment.  And then, all was still.  No tearful goodbye. No last words.  Just stillness. 

She moved to sit beside him.  Lowered her head to his chest.  And laid his hand on her belly. 

Whispering a gentle goodbye, the tears came. 

The life inside her fluttered. 
"Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." ~ Benjamin Franklin 
We want you to tell us a story about a guest, invited or otherwise, who begins to smell, metaphorically or otherwise, after three days.