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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Sunday, January 22, 2012

do the right thing

"you kept me up all night with your scratching"...

not the sexiest thing to ever slip from my husband's mouth in the boudoir...

yet even as he said it, my hand compulsively darted from eyebrow, to knee cap, to coin slot.

to scratch.

i haven't blogged about my side effects for a while; but they are alive and well and living imperishably.

they range on the hen from random (incessant runny nose, exhaustion, massive bruises) to uncomfortable (constant scratching, rash, night sweats, tingling in the hands/arms/feet/legs) to painful (insomnia, abdominal distention, swelling of the limbs).

i was going to solidify my resolve with a hard candy shell and a shellac of confectioners' glaze(d) acceptance. truth is, i'm all hot and frothy; take a deep whiff, and that soothing, vanilla scent is all fake. aspartame to the core.

i don't feel grateful.

and it's only made worse when opinions of the healthy, the hypocrites, the sugar dumb fairies, nag me to not swallow my gum.

sundown. you better take care. the swelling knocks up and against "the kid"; panicking both mother and child. those elastic bands are back. restraining blood flow, designing puffy pockets of flesh, as i frantically piano along my side for the zipper.

"remember this time last year!"

is there anything more insulting to someone chronically ill, than someone perfectly healthy, acting perfectly ignorant?

[take medications for 30 + years and call me in the morning...]

i think about "this time" last year every day. dialysis. no-one ever forgets being on dialysis. and recalling that hell; the searing wound in my chest, the tube that never ceased to sting, the manic detox that was every other day; those memories are the only thing that keep me from flushing all those shiny, happy caplets out to the pacific...

because in thrashing, splashing around in the remains of the day, it is not the vanity of a double chin. it is not the shame of rehab weight gain. and it is not the physical misery of these medications...that devastates...

it is because in drowning in this sad trinity; i still feel sick.

i still feel sick.

and that more than anything, breaks my heart.

{but then i had a flash...of a little girl named j.,who quietly observed from the outskirts of a nuclear circle. two spouses comparing scars. first, the hubby, with his flat stomach, and newly, burgeoning six-pack. phoenixed from the angst of a wife's spiral into insanity. ["ptsd gone wild"...]. second, the wife. with a flip of her top, emerged a seven-month pregnancy. yet she, only ripe with bloat and sadness. [silence]. and in the stillness, an unspoken arrangement. "don't mention the swelling"...but, with a gesture so lightning quick, j. shattered the sound barrier, and shattered this heart. wordlessly, she threw her arms around her auntie, speaking volumes that need never be blogged. she just squeezed. and squeezed. and squeezed...

just doing the right thing...

a hug.

[100 days]

so, watch out kid, this is gonna hurt...}

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